


A Song for Dawn and Dusk

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: AU where more people live, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Arthur Whump, Arthur and Sparrow save everyone they can, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bottom Arthur Morgan, Canonical Character Death, Elements of BDSM in Chapter 11, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Heterosexual Sex, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Marriage, Married Life, Multi, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Sad with a Happy Ending, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Whump, and Micah gets exactly what he has coming to him, fyi this fic does not have a happy ending for Dutch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:43:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 37
Words: 108,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: Arthur Morgan encounters a dying woman in the desert and finds respite in her arms.[“I’ve learned a few things in my travels, Mr. Morgan. When you’re a dying woman, you don’t much care what everyone thinks is proper. You care what feels good. Shall I continue?”]
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s) in Chapter 5 only, Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 50
Kudos: 155





	1. The Pyrrhuloxia

It could easily have been mistaken for a Northern Cardinal, perched as it was atop a cactus with the rising sun shining behind it. Sparrow Callaghan lowered her binoculars with a small smile. A pyrrhuloxia. The desert cardinal. Its feathers, instead of the usual bright solid red of the Northern Cardinal, were a sleek silver grey, accented with a more orange-red. It opened its beak and poured forth a song, a bright, metallic cry similar to its more forest-dwelling cousin.

Sparrow approached, hoping to get a closer look. She was so engrossed in watching the bird that she hardly noticed the lanky silver-black horse that appeared as she walked down into a small gorge. It snorted, reared, stomped the ground and nickered lightly, tugging at a harness that had been secured by rope to a large rock. There was a grunt, a curse, and then a tousled head peaked out of a well-camouflaged bedroll.

“What is it, boah?” the man asked with a thick Southern accent, wiping his face groggily. The horse jerked at its hitch, whickering and kicking out at Sparrow, who steered clear, her hand settling lightly on the pistol at her side. Being a woman in the wilderness with nothing but nature around her and God above her was a dangerous state. She swallowed. She knew how to use this gun, but she would rather not. The man blinked blearily up at her, raising thick, muscular hands in a placating gesture. “Good mornin’,” he greeted carefully, rising to his feet. His frumpy cotton shirt was halfway unbuttoned, revealing a thatch of brown chest hair. He buttoned it swiftly and tugged it into a more presentable state, clearing his throat. “You, ah, seem to have caught me with my britches down, ma’am,” he mumbled, also doing up his pants buttons and securing his suspenders. He looked her over for a moment, blue-green eyes taking in her pleated jeans, her flannel shirt and her general state of nonfeminine sullenness at having her birding expedition interrupted by a man. He frowned a bit, stepping toward her, one hand rested casually on his belt buckle, and the other on his hipbone. “It’s dangerous, bein’ out here all alone,” he commented.

Sparrow chuckled at that.

“You’re right. You’re fortunate I came along,” she retorted. A small smile spilled across his features, crinkling lines next to his eyes and along the side of his nose. Somehow the smile made him look older than his years, but he looked kind. Surveying him for a moment, Sparrow held out a hand and walked to shaking range. “The name’s Sparrow, Sparrow Callaghan,” she told him. His big paw enveloped her hand, the palm dry and rough with callouses, but his hand was warm, much like his expression.

“Arthur. Arthur Morgan.” Her eyebrows rose at that and she tugged her hand from his grip. He held up his arms in a gesture of supplication. “I know, I know, everyone in a fifty-mile radius is out huntin’ me, riding my behind like a tick on a coonhound, but, uh,” he let out a small huff of laughter, “I ain’t gonna cause no trouble, ma’am. Promise.” He said this solemnly, as though he was entering into a legal contract with her. “I, ah, I was gonna make some coffee. I’ll pour you a cup, if you’ll sit fer a spell,” he offered, voice hopeful. She knew he was praying she wouldn’t flee, that she wouldn’t make a beeline for the nearest town to turn him in for that train robbery gone wrong. It had happened nearly a month ago and Arthur Morgan had been a wanted man in the area ever since.

Sparrow smiled, sat.

“I don’t make a habit of being responsible for shearing years off a man’s life because he’s made some error or other. What you’ve done is between yourself and your maker, Mr. Morgan.” His gaze flickered in surprise as he prepared the percolator.

“Well, now, ain’t that a sentiment I wish I encountered more frequently,” he laughed. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you to explain why you feel so kindly toward an outlaw such as myself?”

“Well, if it would better fit your expectations, I’ll gladly ride into town to alert the authorities, Mr. Morgan. I need only call my horse.” It was clear she was teasing, but he still looked a little uncomfortable at the jibe.

“What _are_ you?” he asked, incredulous at her sarcasm. Her eyes twinkled as she looked at him.

“I’m a naturalist. And a pragmatist. Only occasionally an optimist. And on Wednesdays, I’m an artist,” she confided. “It’s the day I take a break from field study and paint my drawings from my field notes.”

“A naturalist, huh? Well, that explains the pants,” he pointed at them as she sat down next to him.

“Yes, I’m here looking for new species of birds, and looking to document previously discovered ones. I’m an ornithologist, really.” He looked at her with an expression of such profound confusion, she thought he might hurt himself.

“Now, miss, I have not been awake long enough or had nearly enough coffee to be able to sort out all these words ending in ‘ist.’ Here. Drink.” He poured her a cup of coffee, which she sipped at delicately. She still wasn’t quite sure what to do here, wasn’t sure if he would threaten or hurt her if she tried to leave, but that pyrrhuloxia was still on the cactus, and this was an excellent place to view it, criminal company aside. Content that, for the moment, at least, Mr. Morgan wasn’t going to harm her, Sparrow pulled her journal and her pencil from her satchel and began to sketch a more detailed drawing of the bird, writing notes on what color to paint in later. Curious, Mr. Morgan peeked at the page, a pleased expression overcoming his features. “Well, would you look at that. That’s a nice picture,” he commented, taking a sip of coffee, cursing under his breath when he burned his tongue and muttering an apology to her for cursing in front of a lady. She laughed.

“Oh, I’m no lady, Mr. Morgan.”

“The pants did make me wonder,” he teased. She felt her nostrils flare.

“Oh, so only men can wear effective, comfortable clothing.”

“Now, that ain’t what I said, and I ain’t here for an argument. I got no problem with women wearin’ what they want and doin’ what they want. I was just teasin’. Sorry. I guess I’ve kinda taken a shine to you on account that you’re the first person I’ve ever encountered that old Satan here hasn’t tried to turn into a fine paste.” He gestured at the horse, which laid its ears back in response and bared yellowed teeth. He made an angry motion at the horse, which snorted and stamped a foot at him.

“Is that so?” she asked softly, a little intimidated now that she really looked at the big animal.

“Yep. Truth be told, part of the reason I’m so far out here ain’t just because of all the lawmen, but because this big bastard, pardon me, keeps tryin’ to kill me and everyone else he encounters. I won him in a bet, and I’ve regretted it ever since. Thought about just cuttin’ him loose, but I’m fairly certain he’d kill me as soon as the halter was off.”

“Well, he seems alright now,” she commented.

“Yeah,” he muttered softly. “Yeah, he does. You got a way with animals, ma’am? I mean, do animals usually go easy near ya?” She smiled.

“Yes, actually. I’ve always done well for myself with nature. Not so good with people, though, I fear.”

“You’re doin’ alright now,” he pointed out. She chuckled.

“Well, give it time. It’s only been a few minutes.” He laughed as well, pouring himself another cup of coffee and topping her own cup up. “It comes with the territory, I suppose.” He frowned.

“How’s that?”

“Well, Mr. Morgan, I might as well tell you since I’ve no one else in the world to tell, I’m dying.” He stared at her for a long moment, taking in what she had said.

“I’m, uh, sorry to hear that,” he admitted, looking awkward. “Can’t anything be done to help, uh, whatever it is?”

“Heart condition, I’m afraid,” she told him. “My father had it. His mother had it. Everyone on my father’s side of the family died of heart troubles when they were in their thirties.” She smiled at him sadly. “And I’ve just turned thirty. Doctor’s say I’ve got a murmur. So, I packed my things and started wandering the wilds, studying the thing I love most – birds.”

“You’ve certainly got the right name for it, unless Sparrow’s a nickname?”

“No. Hmm, the power of suggestion, I suppose, but I adore birds. I figured, if I’m going to die soon anyway, why settle down with a husband or pass this awful curse down to a child? I’d rather be out in the open air, rather be my own woman, making my own choices, free to do as I please and see birds I haven’t seen before. There’s nothing in life greater than being free.”

“I’m with you there,” he muttered as the sun rose higher in the sky. The pyrrhuloxia flew away and Sparrow finished her coffee, wiping out her cup and putting it back in her satchel.

“Well, I’d better be getting on. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Morgan. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Wait,” he called as she started to walk away. “If you’ll hang on for a few more minutes, I was just gonna cook some breakfast.” She stared at him for a moment, unsure of his intentions.

“I have to go, good day to you. And, um, don’t worry, I won’t mention I saw you,” she assured him, sure this was why he was stalling her.

“I’m gonna be out here for a while. I’ve seen some real nice birds. Painted buntings, and Peregrine falcons. All kinds of critters. I even saw a roadrunner last week. Look, I usually value peace and quiet and bein’ by myself, but I hate the idea of you wanderin’ the desert by yourself with a heart condition. I could guide you on where to find things, and make sure you aren’t doin’ poorly in the meantime. Please?” She smiled at him, surprised at his empathy.

“I thank you for your concern, Mr. Morgan, but I’ll be fine.”

“I could really use some help with Satan here,” he pleaded further, but she ignored him, whistling for her own horse.

“Good day, Mr. Morgan.”

\---

It was more than a month later on a Wednesday when Arthur encountered Sparrow next. He knew it was Wednesday, because when he approached, he could see that she had set up an easel on a flat area of sand and was using watercolors to bring the drawings from her journal to life. She had redrawn the pyrrhuloxia onto a larger, nicer sheet of paper and was carefully painting, the tip of her tongue captured at the side of her mouth in an expression of intense concentration. On the ground was another sheet, this one with a roadrunner sketched on it. She must have found one, then, he thought, a little disappointed he didn’t get to show her where to locate the one he had seen.

“It seems I can’t be rid of you, Mr. Morgan,” she commented as he slowly walked up, trying to be quiet.

“Didn’t mean to disturb you,” he apologized, feeling like an idiot. He couldn’t rightly say why, but he couldn’t get her off his mind. She was independent, and maybe a little foolhardy, but he liked her. She made him feel something, like he was missing a place he had never been to before, an odd tugging sensation in his chest. Not at all like Mary, who made him feel like his heart was being torn out by a coyote.

“But here you are, disturbing me,” she said, but the look she gave him was kind. “I was a little worried when I overheard a criminal had been caught in town.”

“Worried about little ol’ me?” he asked with a smirk, tucking his thumbs into the clips of his suspenders.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she told him, cleaning a brush on a rag. “I was merely concerned I’d never again have a cup of that excellent coffee you brewed.”

“You’re joking?” he asked, incredulous.

“I am. It was awful.” He scowled, squinting out over the desert, keen eyes spotting a small covey of California quail. “Now, now, Mr. Morgan. Don’t take too much offense, I’m only teasing. I’ve given your offer more thought,” she said casually. He said nothing, waited. “If you’d still like me to accompany you while you wait out your bounty, I suppose that would be alright,” she said. “It’s getting cold at night, and a few days ago I nearly had a run-in with a diamond backed rattlesnake. I know I’m dying, but that’s certainly not how I’d prefer to go.”

“Alright, then,” he said, “but you’ll hafta pay me for my time.” She whipped her head around at him but softened when she saw the gentle smirk on his face.

“You gotta agree to help me with this damn fool horse of mine.” She smiled and stood, offering her hand for him to shake. He took it gently. It was small, and cool to the touch, delicate, like the birds she was spending the rest of her life studying. There was an odd poetry to that, Arthur thought.

“You have a deal, Mr. Morgan.”

“And about that,” he said after a moment, “you can just call me ‘Arthur,’ if you want.”

“Alright, Arthur. Call me Sparrow.” He blustered for a moment, wanting to argue that it was inappropriate to refer to a lady by her first name, he had already experienced her opinion on being considered a lady.

“Sparrow, then. Well, looks like we’ve got about three hours before the sun sets. I know of a good place you can get eyes on a Whip-poor-will, if yer up to it?”

“It’s very unlikely that you saw a Whip-poor-will in this area. Maybe a pauraque?” she thought aloud, looking excited. He liked seeing that expression on her face, he realized. Damn, he’d been alone far too long. Next thing he’d know, he’d be following her around like a lost puppy, making eyes at her and offering to marry her – he halted that train of thought right there, reminding himself that she was dying, taking in her pale skin and her cool hands and the darkness under her eyes to enforce the point. She was temporary company and he was doing her a favor, not the other way around.

Thing was, the longer Arthur looked at Sparrow, the more he liked her. He liked her blonde-brown hair, pulled all up into a neat queue. He liked her green eyes, and her round cheeks, and her soft jaw. He liked the way she carried herself, like she owed no one anything. He liked the way she wasn’t like any other woman he had ever encountered. He couldn’t put his finger on just why exactly he had such a soft spot for her, but he thought that maybe it was a combination of all those little things, and the fact that he was lonely. Regardless, all he did know is that he liked the woman, and he wanted to keep her safe. Doing good, helping people, it’s what he preferred. He wondered absently what he would have been in a different life, had he not been raised by Dutch, if he had not made the choices he had made that got him here. It didn’t much make a difference, he told himself, lighting a cigarette and smoking it as they rode.

Arthur heard a small cough behind him and cursed himself, putting out the cigarette quickly. Last thing someone with a heart condition needed was to be breathing smoke, he thought. He showed her the brushy area where he had seen the small brown bird a few days before, and they sat quietly, listening as darkness fell over the world, bringing with it the hoots of an owl and the lonesome cry of a far away wolf. She grabbed his arm at the sound, and he looked down at her grip, feeling something stir inside him before he crammed the sensation quickly away.

A burry “purr-weee-eer” sounded nearby and in the last of the light of the sun, Arthur saw Sparrow smile.

“That’s it,” she whispered softly. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing it tonight, but just to hear it! How lovely.”

Yes. Lovely, he thought, staring at her green eyes. Little lines creased the skin between her brows as he stared, and Arthur shook himself, forcing his gaze away from her.

“I think we probly oughta make camp soon before we run outta light,” he suggested.

“Somewhere a ways from here, please. I don’t want to scare the bird off.”

“Alright,” he obliged, helping her up from where she had been squatting. Once they found a nice flat area for their camp, Arthur assembled a small fire, cooking them some dinner. “Where’s your tent?” he asked her. “I’ll set it up for you.”

“I don’t have one,” she admitted. “Sold it for some paints the last time I was in town. I’ve been roughing it.”

“See them clouds?” he asked her, pointing. “‘Mare’s tails and mackerel scales make tall ships bring in their sails.’ It’s gonna get windy, and cold. You can take mine.”

“Nonsense, we can both bed in the tent.” He froze at that, his jaw dropping a bit. Sparrow laughed. “Before you chide me on my impropriety, I should remind you, I’m dying. I no longer have any honor to protect.” He relaxed after a moment.

“Well, I guess that’s somethin’ we got in common. Alright, just, poke me in the ribs if I get to snorin’.”

Arthur’s breathing increased as Sparrow joined him in his tent, cuddling into her sleeping bag after stripping down to cotton breeks and a thick wool shirt. He had prepared himself to remain calm with a woman sleeping so close to him, but what he had not prepared for was for her to gently brush his cheek with one of her hands after darkness had fallen and the fire had died down.

“Mr. Morgan? Arthur?”

“Hmm?” he asked, cautious, unsure if the motion had been intentional or purely accident.

“What do you suppose happens when we die?” she asked, her voice sounding soft and terribly afraid. Unthinking, he pulled her close, and she let him, curling into his chest.

“Well, I reckon I don’t rightly know. Can’t imagine there’s much we can do about it anyway,” he pointed out. She was quiet for a moment, and he could feel her trembling against him, so he continued, trying to find the words to reassure a dying woman about death. “The way I see it, death ain’t somethin’ we oughta worry about too much. While we’re alive, death don’t matter. When we’re dead, we don’t matter. When you die, I don’t think anything good or bad happens to ya, I think you just…aren’t anymore. Way I figure it, folks that are scared of dying are scared of it because they think something’s gonna happen afterwards. Death ain’t nothin’ to be scared of. It’s life people oughta concern themselves with.” Sparrow chuckled softly.

“Whether you realize it or not, Arthur, you just quoted, in a rather roundabout way, a Greek philosopher named Epicurus. And I suppose you’re right. For me, it’s the waiting that’s bad.”

“Well. Hopefully I can make the waiting part a little better, at least for a bit. Saw an eagle a few days back down by the pond to the east. We’ll go there in the morning.” Sparrow said nothing in response, but her hand found his in the darkness and she placed their clasped hands over her chest. As Arthur began to drift off to sleep, he could feel the soft _lubdublubdublubdub_ of her heart beneath his fingers and wished it weren’t beating out a death march.


	2. Ablutions

Arthur awoke gradually, and then with a start, realizing there was a warm body curled up next to his, snoring softly. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up next to a woman, of course, but it had been a while and Ms. Callaghan was a friend and a client, not a romantic partner, so it still felt odd untangling himself from her, trying not to wake her. They had spent the better part of two weeks exploring the open country, him hunting and her birding. She was an interesting woman, smart, funny, and entirely capable of keeping up with his subtle humor. His brand of sarcasm often made people assume he was dull-witted, but she saw past that façade and gave as good as she got.

Very gently, Arthur extracted his arm from beneath her neck, smiling as she mumbled something in her sleep. It turned out she slept like the dead, so much so that the snores and odd mutterings were a comfort, otherwise he would have worried she died in her sleep. He wondered idly just how long she had, if he would be staying with her until the end, or if they would part ways somewhere safer for her, like a city. He couldn’t stay out here forever. At some point he would have to return to the gang, he reminded himself, feeling a streak of guilt.

Kicking the fire back to life and adding wood to it, Arthur started coffee, lit a cigarette, picked up his pack and meandered over sand and through scruffy grass, carefully avoiding cacti as he made his way to a small offshoot of the river that ran a few miles north of here. It had been a few days since he had bathed, and he was ripe, he knew, giving a disgusted sniff. Stripping, he hissed as he stepped into the frigid water of the creek, grunting as every part of him that could retreat closer to his body did so. Shivering, he ran a bar of lye soap over his head, scrubbing at his scruffy hair and dousing himself with water to rinse. He ought to put pomade in it, he thought, look a little nicer for Ms. Callaghan. He pushed away the thought of just why he cared about what Ms. Callaghan thought of his appearance and continued scrubbing, running the soap over his arms and legs and letting his teeth chatter miserably around the cigarette that was hanging out of one corner of his mouth.

“Well, well, I knew there were corvids native to this area, but I didn’t expect to find a jaybird,” came Sparrow’s voice, sounding amused. Arthur plunged down neck-deep into the water, spluttering, dropping the cigarette from his mouth. It fell, making a sizzling noise in the water before it sank.

“I…well…Ms. Callaghan, you’ll hafta excuse me, but I am performin’ my ablutions and am not adequately dressed to be having a chat,” he objected, mortified.

“Never you mind, Arthur,” Sparrow assured him, slipping out of her own clothing as Arthur turned away, his face crimson. “My father was a doctor before he died. I was practically raised in a hospital. You’ve nothing I haven’t seen before, let me assure you.”

“You are somethin’ else, Ms. Callaghan, and I…well I’d really prefer not to be showin’ my backside to ya, if you wouldn’t mind bathin’ later. It ain’t right for a man and a woman to be naked together unless…” he let the thought trail, having dead-ended himself.

“Unless what, Arthur?” Sparrow asked in an amused tone, stepping into the water and beginning to scrub. Shyly looking over his shoulder and purposefully meeting her eyes and looking nowhere else, Arthur clenched and unclenched his jaw.

“If your daddy was a doctor, then you know exactly what _‘unless,’_” he griped, deeply uncomfortable. He was uncomfortable because, despite his principals, and despite the cold, his body was showing a very earnest interest in the woman splashing in the water behind him. He tried to focus on something, anything other than Sparrow’s lithe body, her pale skin, spattered with a delicate coating of soft brown freckles.

“Arthur, I am a dying woman. You will have to forgive me if I take advantage of that fact to earn some sympathy. Surely you wouldn’t deny a woman her lustful looks. You are a handsome man, Mr. Morgan. I’ve never been much for principals anyway. It’s alright, you can look,” she chuckled, seeing the conflicted look on his face. He turned to her, his ocean blue eyes meeting her forest green ones. She sobered, the smile on her face faltering as her eyes skirted over his broad chest.

“What are we doin’ here, Ms. Callaghan…Sparrow?” he asked softly, taking a step toward her. Propriety and principles be damned, he thought, he wanted this woman. She raised a brow at him.

“Why, bathing, of course.”

“Of course,” he huffed dryly, keeping a big hand cupped over his most intimate parts as he stepped out of the water, a little pleased with how her eyes perused him appreciatively, paying special attention to his chest and his ass cheeks and his legs, which were solid and well-muscled. He gazed at her, his pupils dilating with lust as he ran his gaze over pale breasts with pink nipples standing at attention, glancing down a lean, but muscular belly and over wide, fertile-looking hips. Her legs were long, and the skin looked almost ethereal, especially submerged in the clear water of the creek. She was beautiful. A gentle, warm breeze flickered over them both, raising gooseflesh as it caressed the dampness on their skin. Arthur stepped fully out of the water after Sparrow, feeling himself shiver both with nerves and with cold.

Drying himself with a rag, Arthur picked up another, and, meeting Sparrow’s eyes and finding permission burning there, he began to wipe the water from her flesh with tender motions. He leaned down, his face close to hers, so close he could count individual lashes. Her breaths were coming fast, reminding him of a bird, which seemed fitting. Pushing his luck, he pressed his lips to hers, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other behind her shoulders, his palm cupping the back of her head. She didn’t resist him and melted into his touch, kissing him gently before she suddenly bit his bottom lip. Arthur pulled back with a sound of protest, his hand going to his mouth. Sparrow’s eyes were glittering with mischief.

“We’ve other things to do, Arthur. There’s breakfast to cook, for one. That coffee should be ready.” With that, she picked up her clothes and began to walk back toward their camp. Arthur stood, dumbfounded, his loins aching with desire.

“You can’t do that to me, woman,” he called after her.

“I believe I just did, Mr. Morgan. Come and help me with breakfast. I’d recommend putting on clothes first, though,” she called, her tone teasing.

Irritated, Arthur took a deep breath in through his nostrils. He tugged on his clothes, tucking his cock to the side and forcing himself to calm. He duckwalked back to the camp, the heavy material of his jeans pinching delicate flesh. Sparrow looked up at him innocently.

“Fish or squirrel, what’s your fancy?”

“I think you know _exactly_ what I’d fancy right about now,” he growled. She laughed.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist the temptation.”

“Well, apparently you could,” he protested, raising his voice.

“Come now, Arthur. Good things come to those who wait. I want to go back over to that hill with all the prickly pear cactus. I think we may find some hummingbirds there. Here, have some coffee.” She handed him a steaming cup, which he took, cradling his hands around it to warm them. They sat in silence as the meat cooked, sizzling and popping over the cheery flame as the sun rose and warmed the air. Arthur thought long and hard, sipping at his coffee and trying to forget the soft touch of her lips against his.

“I think,” he said as he refilled his mug from the percolator with a thoughtful expression on his features, “it’d be best if you run into town and get another tent,” he suggested.

“Nonsense,” Sparrow insisted. “I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable, Mr. Morgan. I will not attempt to violate your chastity again.” He couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“What chastity I may have had was lost years ago when I was a young boy,” he admitted. “But I think us…carryin’ on might be a bad idea.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” He spluttered for a moment, searching for a legitimate reason. He was not a religious man, so he couldn’t claim that as his reasoning, nor was he concerned with putting a child in her, given her condition. Her condition… Thinking quickly, he answered.

“For one, a woman in your condition shouldn’t be doing anything that would make her…excitable. It’d be bad on the heart,” he finished, pleased with himself for coming up with such a clever excuse.

“Hardly, a good session of vigorous coitus is just the thing for a poorly heart,” she said, making him splutter and spill coffee. He choked and coughed, hacking for a moment.

“Jesus, woman, that mouth of yours is going to be the death of me.”

“Hmm, we’ll see,” she teased him with a lascivious little wink. She was, Arthur decided with a small grin, a delight.

“Alright, alright, enough. Let’s eat our breakfast and go find you some hummingbirds. I gotta do some huntin’ later in the day, but the mornin’s ripe for finding you some new things. We’ll talk about the…tent later,” he finished awkwardly.

Arthur lead the way to the hill covered in prickly pear, sighing when Satan tried to turn around and bite his leg.

“Goddamn stubborn bastard, knock it off,” he griped, popping the horse in the nose with the tip of his boot. Satan laid his ears back and bunny hopped in place, threatening to buck. “Settle down, boah,” Arthur drawled, patting the furious animal. Sparrow nudged her own horse forward to match his speed. Satan’s ears flickered and his big brown eye looked over at Sparrow. He swatted his tail back and forth but settled. Arthur chuckled. “He likes you,” he told her. She eyed him for a moment.

“He’s hardly the first wild, unruly thing to take a shine to me,” she said with a grin. Arthur met Sparrow’s eye and gave her a small, closed-lipped smile.

“So how long are you gonna stay out here, Miss Sparrow?” Arthur asked, drawing out a plug of chewing tobacco and shoving it into his lip.

“Until I run out of money, or I die,” she said simply, surveying the cacti through her binoculars, searching for the bright, jewel-like plumage of hummingbirds amid the bright fruit and green pads. “And before you think about robbing me, you should know that most of my money is safely stored in a bank.” He barked a small laugh.

“If you think your money’s safe in a bank, you’ve got another think comin’, ma’am. But, anyway, I ain’t gonna rob you. Like you said, I’ve taken quite a shine to you.”

“I’m not looking for a husband, Mr. Morgan,” she reminded him, not looking away from her binoculars.

“And I ain’t lookin’ for a wife, but I am enjoyin’ your company. That said, I have other things to do than show you birds for the rest of my life.” She glanced at him after that phrase and he reddened. “Er…” She held up a hand to stop him.

“Unless you catch a bullet between now and a few months from now, I assure you it won’t be the rest of your life,” she reminded him, her voice terse.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, putting a hand hesitantly on her arm. She looked at him for a long moment.

“As I’ve said, Mr. Morgan, I’m here for a pleasant time, not an extended time. If you have other business to attend to, I can gladly resume my solo journey.”

“That ain’t necessary,” he told her. “Now, what kinda hummer is that?” he asked, pointing out a bright body that zoomed from plant to plant.

“Oh, an Anna’s Hummingbird,” she whispered, delighted. Arthur stared at her out of the corner of his eye, reveling in her excitement. “Good eye, Arthur.”

“When we’re done here, I know of a spot where you can find some burrowing owls, if you’re interested,” he offered.

“Absolutely,” she whispered, sketching quickly. Arthur’s sketches were good, Sparrow’s were great. He watched, entranced, as she carefully shaded and notated the drawing, taking care to delineate where one color would start, and another would end when she used watercolors to make a more detailed rendition.

“You got a way with a pencil and paper,” he said. “Where’d you learn that?”

“My father taught me,” she told him. “He used to draw anatomy for his papers, and he showed me how to do the same, and how to take notes. He taught me a lot of things, before he died,” she said, her voice going quiet at that last statement.

“I am,” Arthur started, “very sorry you’ve been dealt the hand you have, Miss Sparrow,” he told her. She turned to him and smiled, making a clear effort to push away the bitter, sad expression that had overcome her.

“So, about those burrowing owls…?”

“Right this way,” he told her, helping her up. She gazed into his face and he saw trust settle on hers, and comfort.

And if her hand lingered a little longer than entirely appropriate in his, well, who was he to judge?


	3. Go Slowly

“So then, the man has the sack to try to rob me,” Sparrow drawled, continuing a story she’d been relating while they ate a moderate lunch next to a small fire. “And, well, I didn’t kill him, but he ain’t fatherin’ any kids anytime soon, I’ll tell you that. I also took his horse from him. I doubt very much he wanted to ride in the state I left him in. That’s how I got Isabella over there,” she finished, jerking a thumb at her horse. Arthur smirked, wiping coffee off his upper lip and onto his sleeve.

“You know, you lose that fancy accent when you get mad or excited,” he commented in his own drawl, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Morgan?” she asked genteelly, slipping back into the formal pattern of speech. He laughed out loud.

“Why do you do that? You don’t need to impress me, I’m already impressed. Hell, you know more about birds than I know about anythin’,” he told her, crossing his arms comfortably over his chest.

“Hmm. Habit, I suppose. Oh, I mean, habit, I reckon,” she answered, falling into an intentionally thick drawl and grinning at Arthur, who laughed his rough chuckle, a dry, comforting sound. “I’m originally from Tyler, Texas. I don’t know that I’ve ever mentioned that.”

“Rose capitol of the world,” Arthur said, “I know it. Robbed a train there once.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she asked in a half-amused, half-martyred tone. They had already talked about his propensity for crime, the reasons why, or at least his justifications. She didn’t judge. It wasn’t her place to, anyway, and Arthur was an otherwise honorable man. “As for my accent, my father was a doctor, and my mother was a teacher. They valued education and proper grammar. Doesn’t mean I ain’t a Texan, though,” she said, dropping again into a Southern accent almost as thick as Arthur’s.

“So, whatcher plan fer the rest of the day?” he asked, surveying the horizon. Only vultures were out now. They had seen several species of birds that morning, but as the day progressed, the heat drove many species to shelter, making them hard to spot without flushing them from cover.

“I thought maybe I could work with that horse of yours,” she said, looking over at Satan, who was ripping up bites of grass where he was tethered.

“I thought you _didn’t_ have a death wish,” Arthur muttered.

“Come now,” Sparrow protested. “He’s never given me any trouble, have you, boy?” she asked as she walked toward him. He blustered, pawing the ground. “Easy now, you’re fine. I’ll tell you what, Arthur, why don’t you ride my Isabella for a while, and I’ll ride Satan.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said hesitantly.

“It would appear he disagrees,” Sparrow argued, as the big, angry horse nuzzled her, whickering softly.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Arthur mumbled. “Alright, guess we’ll trade, then. Oughta make it easier for me to go into town later, anyway.”

“What?!” Sparrow exclaimed, spooking Satan, who half-reared and snorted. “You’ll be shot! Or hanged!”

“Nah, I’ll cover my face with a scarf. I’ll go in the mornin’, when it’s cold.”

“You will do no such thing, Mr. Morgan. I will go for you. You give me a list, and I’ll retrieve whatever it is you need.” He sighed, shoulders rounding.

“Well, I’ll be honest. I was gonna sneak into town and buy you some paints…just cuz. You mentioned yesterday you were running low on blue.” Arthur shrugged awkwardly, embarrassed that his crush, or whatever this was he felt toward Sparrow was turning him into such an ass. A smile slid across Sparrow’s face and she walked over to him, putting a hand lightly on his bicep.

“You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan. But I ain’t gonna let you get yourself hanged over some paint. I’ll run into town on Tuesday. That’s two days from now, plenty of time to get a few more sketches and work with Satan here.” Arthur chuckled, patting Isabella, who whickered and probed his jacket pocket with her upper lip, trying to find a sugar cube or a carrot. Arthur obliged her, pulling an apple out of his pocket.

“Never figured you for a horse thief,” he laughed, referencing the story she’d told him earlier as he scratched under Isabella’s chin.

“Well, the man ruined one of my notebooks and scared the shit out of me, so I’d call us even. If we’re getting technical here, I think we could consider it a trade, or an impromptu transaction, not a theft,” she objected, hands on her hips. Arthur shook his head.

“You are somethin’ else, Miss Sparrow,” he told her, itching to reach out and touch her the way she often did to him, but something stopped him. Pride, or fear perhaps, he didn’t know, but regardless, he kept one hand on his hip and the other on Isabella’s red-furred neck. “She sure is pretty,” Arthur commented, looking the horse over for the hundredth time. It didn’t look like any old nag. Her coat was a gorgeous shade of mahogany and each of her four white stockings were symmetrical to one another, giving her the appearance of having been dipped very carefully into milk or white paint. Her gait was odd, and Arthur studied her for a moment. He thought perhaps she was an Andalusian or maybe a Peruvian Paso. A gorgeous horse, regardless. “Where’d you get the name ‘Isabella’?” he asked, untangling a knot he had noticed in the horse’s mane.

“That’s her actual name, apparently. Her papers were in her saddlebag.”

“Really? That’s luck for you.”

“Well, I suppose I could use some, given my lot,” Sparrow commented dryly. Arthur huffed a laugh at the morbid joke and rummaged in the saddlebag, pulling out the paper. His mouth went dry when he saw the owner name printed on the crisp paper.

“You, uh, you sure that feller you took her off of was just some outlaw?”

“Quite. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” he lied easily. “Just, ain’t normal for an outlaw to have papers on his horse like this.” Arthur’s stomach flipflopped. On the horse’s title was an infamous name – Ernestro de Legara, a notorious gang leader from Mexico. Dutch and the rest of his own gang had largely avoided the man, preferring to stay out of his interests. He was a vicious leader and his gang was known for decapitations, drawing and quartering and sodomizing their victims with various blunt objects. They were not a group to be trifled with – and this was his horse. From the long list of pristine equine genealogy printed on the title, his _prize_ horse. “Shit,” Arthur muttered under his breath. “Tell you what, I’ll buy Isabella from you,” he offered. “Given that she’s got papers, I could make a tidy sum trading her when I move on. You’d really be doing me a favor,” he lied. Sparrow shrugged.

“If you’re alright with an even trade, I’ll take Satan here off your hands.” Arthur pretended to think it over, picking up one of Isabella’s feet and running his hands over her haunches skeptically as though he were thinking it over. Sparrow could not know how important it was she wasn’t seen on this horse or she would never agree to it.

“Weeell,” he said, drawing out the word and narrowing his eyes. “I suppose I could do that, if you agree to throw in a painting for me,” he bartered. That part was not a lie. He really did want one of her paintings. Sparrow grinned.

“It’s a deal. What kind of bird would you like me to paint for you, Arthur?”

“A sparrow,” he answered, without a second’s thought. “I know, I know, there’s a whole buncha species. Whichever one’s your favorite,” he shrugged. She smiled.

“Alright. I’ll paint you a White-throated Sparrow. They’re quite beautiful. But I will need some yellow paint for that. I’m actually all out of that one,” she confided, “as well as being low on blue.”

“I could use some chewin’ tobacco and a coupla cans of beans,” he listed off. “I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a bottle of whiskey neither,” he told her.

“Alright, I’ll go tomorrow, then, instead of Tuesday. For now, I’m going to run Satan through his paces.”

“Say, how are you with that six-shooter you’ve got there?” Arthur asked, still nervous about Isabella and her origins. Sparrow frowned a bit.

“I manage,” she answered, tone even. Arthur nodded.

“Here,” he said, approaching and offering her a long-range rifle. “I’ve got this one extra. Don’t really need it. Could come in handy when you’re by yourself, if fer nothin’ else but the scope.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Arthur?” Sparrow frowned.

“No, no,” he said, too quickly, he knew from the look on her face. He puffed out a breath. “Look, I just don’t like the idea of you bein’ out and about alone. I’d feel better if you had that strapped to your back, even if it is just for show.” She smiled.

“Wouldn’t do me much good if I’d never practiced with one, show or not.” Her eyes were glittering. Far above them, a flock of ducks was migrating South. In an instant, the rifle was in her hands, aimed and fired. A duck fell heavily from the sky, dead. “Good thing I have.”

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Arthur exclaimed, surprised again by this odd woman.

“For dinner,” she explained, picking up the carcass. “Mallard ducks are a dime a dozen. Come on, now. Let’s get the horses some exercise.”

\-----

Sparrow had been gone most of the day when the group rode up. Arthur stepped out of the tent he had been snoozing in, wary.

“Evenin’, gentlemen,” he greeted, but they looked decidedly unfriendly.

“Put your hands in the air, boy. That there’s our boss’ horse,” one of them said, pointing at Isabella.

_Shit_, Arthur thought, his stomach in his throat. There were ten in the group, too many for him to be able to deal with given that he only had his six-shooter on his hip. He nodded, trying to defuse the tense situation.

“Look, mister, y’all can have the horse. She’s been tryin’ to kill me from the moment I won her in a poker match three months ago.”

“From the moment you stole her, you mean,” one of the men said, a sneer on his face. “We were born at night, but not last night.” Arthur’s heart was pounding in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted.

“It ain’t just that you stole the horse,” another of the group said lowly, a smirk oozing over his piggish features. “It’s that you stole _that_ horse. Boss wants his horse back, and we want the bounty on your head, mister. The bounty our boss put on the man who stole his horse says ‘dead or alive.’ We intend to bring you back alive, ‘cuz our boss likes to hang little men who steal from him and what our boss likes he pays more for. But that don’t mean we can’t have some fun with you before we bring you in.”

In an instant Arthur had to make his decision. He darted toward the horse, hoping to get distance between himself and the gang. Before he could reach Isabella’s reins, however, a lasso was slung easily over his head and around his neck. He reached for it, but wasn’t fast enough. It tightened and yanked him violently back. He felt the tautness around his neck, felt skin tearing against the rope and his mouth gaped open, trying desperately to draw air into already sore lungs. He scratched desperately at the rope, but it tightened. The edges of his vision began to go black, but he turned and could see his attackers riding toward one of the few low trees in the area. He was drug backward, kicking and scrabbling for his gun, but one of the men ran up and snatched it from him, tossing it away.

Desperate, Arthur kicked out, feeling euphoria when his boot connected hard with someone’s leg and he heard a pained yelp. For only a moment the noose loosened and he gulped in a breath, growling when someone flipped him, tying his hands behind his back.

“If you’re gonna hogtie me, you better tie the knots tight, boah,” Arthur threatened, his voice hoarse from the abuse by the rope. The man merely laughed. Arthur’s vision flickered to the man holding the end of the rope.

“Go ahead, Donny, give him a taste of what’s comin’!” one of them called.

“What?” Arthur asked stupidly. His stomach sank to his feet when he saw the end of the rope thrown over a tree branch. The owner of the lasso wrapped it around his saddle horn and began slowly, excruciatingly backing his horse up, dragging Arthur back and then up so that he dangled from the tree branch, his feet scrabbling for purchase. He gasped for breath, choking and feeling tears gathering in his eyes, both from terror and from pain.

“Look at him kick!” he heard vaguely over the sound of his own heartbeat.

Hanged. He was going to be hanged. Of all the awful ways to go, he thought to himself, his vision once again fading. He had often thought, on long lonely nights, that Mary would be the last thought running through his mind. But as his vision faded and his world went dark, all he could think of was birdsong and the flapping of wings.

\-----

A resounding _CRACK_ filled the air and the rope holding Arthur up by his neck snapped. He dropped heavily to the ground, wheezing, struggling against the ropes tying his arms behind his back. He heard thundering hoofsteps and heard more shots. He was useless though, bound as he was, and desperately trying to draw in air, snot and saliva collecting dirt on his face as he struggled on the ground like a fish out of water. A few moments later, Sparrow plopped down beside him, tugging the noose away and cutting the ropes holding his wrists together.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice trembling. Arthur looked around, saw corpses strewn here and there. He blinked stupidly, gasping in a breath.

“I’m fine,” he assured her, rubbing at his raw neck and clearing his throat. “You?” Her face was ghostly white and he could see her hands were shaking.

“I’m…” She gasped a breath, holding a hand to her chest, “I’m just a little…short of breath…”

“You…you and me…both,” he managed to get out, sucking in another big breath that made his lungs sting. “Come on, let’s get you some water. I need the same.” He stood, wobbling like a newborn foal, and grabbed a canteen, handing it to Sparrow. She took a small drink and gave it back, remaining on the ground, seated and breathing through her nose.

“Where on God’s green earth did you learn to shoot like that, girlie?” Arthur asked, incredulous. She gave a small laugh, but she still looked exhausted.

“I’m a naturalist who studies birds, Arthur. We don’t always just draw our study species, sometimes we have to shoot them for museum collections.” Arthur sat heavily next to her, forcing the water canteen back into her hand.

“Learn somethin’ new every day,” he ground out, his voice rough and his throat sore. “You gonna be okay?” She glanced over at him.

“I think I’ll be switching to whiskey in a moment, Mr. Morgan,” she told him dryly. “I’ve never killed a man before, and I’ve just killed ten.” He stared at her for a long moment.

“We’ll move the camp. I’ll take care of the bodies,” he told her. “But we gotta get rid of that damn horse. She belongs to a nasty gang leader. We can’t keep her no more. I’m gonna take her harness off and let her go where she wants.”

“Is _that_ why they nearly killed you?” Sparrow asked, astonished. Arthur laughed.

“You never come between a man and his horse, darlin’. Anyway, let’s get this done. You go set over there for a spell,” he commanded. Sparrow offered no objection, just sat, looking weary. The way she didn’t offer any argument had Arthur worried. The sooner he got this dealt with and got a new camp set up for her to rest, the better.

It was dark by the time he found a good spot. It was nearly five miles away from where they had encountered the gang, and the creek that ran nearby was nowhere near as clear as their previous campsite, but it would do. He set up the tent and built the fire, insisting that Sparrow continue to rest. She deserved it, he thought, incredibly grateful for her prowess with guns and timing. When he finally sat next to her, she offered him an already open bottle of whiskey, her eyes a little dull. He took a swig and hissed at the burn, clearing his throat.

“Thank you,” he said softly, taking her hand in his. Her green eyes stared into his blue ones and he saw vulnerability there, and need. They were alive. They were both still alive. While there are many things a person might do to celebrate their continued existence, both of them only had one activity on their minds.

Without another moment’s thought, Arthur pressed his lips roughly against Sparrow’s and she let out a little moan, burying her fingers in his soft brown hair.

“Go slowly,” she whispered in his ear, tracing the shell of it with a finger, sending chills of pleasure down his spine.

“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” he assured her, and he laid her down on the blankets.

In the distance, a nightjar sang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-----------  
The next chapter will have actual smut. Gotta build that tension, though. :D


	4. Shall I Continue?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the smut chapter. (There will probably be more, but this is the first one.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Heterosexual sex  
CW: Rough(ish) sex  
CW: anal fingering  
CW: oral sex

Arthur tasted like cigars, peppermint, whiskey, and a little like blood, presumably from his split lip. Sparrow sank her fingers into his hair, her short nails scratching at his scalp as he laid her on her back, kissing her like his life depended on it, his pink lips soft amid the scratchy stubble of his facial hair. She let out a breathy moan as his leg pressed up between hers, giving her something to grind on, but it was not enough. She tore at the buttons on his shirt urgently, prodding the material off him and pushing his soft red underwear off his shoulders and down to his hips. He let out a shuddering breath as one of her hands stuttered over his chest, rustling through the thick thatch of soft brown hair that covered his chest and led down his belly and to his pants, one of her hands grasping the hard lump at the front of his jeans tight enough to elicit a grunt from him.

“Slow down, darlin’,” Arthur murmured, cupping her face in his big hands, a calloused thumb trailing over her bottom lip before she drew the digit into her mouth and bit gently. He huffed at that, the black pupils in the center of bright blue-gold eyes blasting open in arousal. She pushed at his pants, scrabbling with him as he tried to slow her movements, but God, it had been so long since she had a man inside her and this raging _joy_ in her belly that she hadn’t died yet was overwhelming, sinking a deep need between her legs. Arthur let slip a little pained sound as she forced rough material down over his buttocks and groin, scratching hard against his aching erection. “Slow down,” he pleaded with her, trying to arrest her wrists, but wanting to be gentler with her than she was treating him. “Have you ever…?”

“Yes, now come on, I need you inside me,” she rasped out, suckling at his jawline and wrapping a hand around his thick cock. He moaned softly next to her ear, but in an instant, he had her pinned, grabbing both her wrists and forcing her to still, though her hips bucked up to try to reach him, even through the soft khaki pants she was still wearing. Arthur could practically feel the heat spilling off her, and he understood it. There was nothing he wanted more than to rut himself into a warm body every time he scraped out of a dangerous situation with his life, but he didn’t just want to use Sparrow. Arthur met her eyes and he transferred both of her wrists to one of his big hands, trailing the other down her side, making her shudder. He flicked open the buttons on her shirt, grateful that she wasn’t wearing a big dress and a corset.

“Now, I know you need this, I need it too, but I want to go slow, like you said. Gentle,” he whispered, pulling her pants down, raising an eyebrow when he saw the lacy underwear that had been hidden by her pants. His erection was bobbing achingly against his belly, weeping with precum and making him want to buck his hips against her, but he was a gentleman, and there were things he needed to do first. He arched his back and brought his lips to the dripping slit between her legs, laving his thick tongue between her folds and tasting the musky sweetness there. Sparrow keened an aching cry, her hips pressing up into his face as he licked and sucked at the paradise between her pale legs, nipping carefully at the insides her thighs, reveling at the softness and paleness of the skin there.

Wetting one of his fingers with saliva first, Arthur buried it inside Sparrow, wiggling it in a ‘come here’ motion that set Sparrow squirming beneath his ministrations.

“Arthur!” Sparrow panted, tugging her wrists in his grip, which he tightened like a vice. “Please, I’ll cooperate,” she promised, soft eyes meeting his. He smirked and bit the inside of her leg.

“I’ll punish ya if’n you don’t,” he purred, amused at her desperation and trying to ignore his own. He released her wrists and she immediately sunk her fingers in his hair again, pushing his face deeper between her legs. He groaned, moaning with pleasure as she clamped her thighs against his ears. Willfully ignoring his need to breathe, he kissed and teased the flesh between her legs, reveling in the taste of her, and the warmth of her muscular thighs against his head. Sparrow grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged him back up. He gasped in a huge breath, feeling a little lightheaded, but he didn’t care.

When Arthur met her eyes this time, he could no longer control himself. Settling his legs on either side of her own and dragging the sensitive underside of his cock against her wet slit, he juttered his hips forward and back, rasping in little soft breaths as her fingernails clipped down his ribs, making him shudder with the ticklish, hair-raising sensation. He tipped his hips back and aligned the head of his cock with her slit, sliding in with a deep growl. He was still for a moment, dizzy with the tight warmth. It had been a while. He took a shaky breath as Sparrow dug her fingernails into his pale buttocks, trying to drive him deeper inside her. Arthur obliged after a moment, pressing himself in as far as he could go, until they were hip to hip, her panting and grabbing at his ass cheeks.

“Oh, Arthur!” she gasped out, “Please, move, please, please, please,” she begged him, and he swallowed, fighting not to blow it right then and there at her begging for him.

“Sweet Jesus, girl, you’re gonna, oh _shit_,” he hissed as she pushed her hips up into him, grinding in a circular motion that had him seeing stars. Sparrow bit his chin lightly, trailing her teeth against the lines of scars there. She cupped one hand behind his head, ramming their foreheads together as she did the work, pumping her hips up and down while Arthur, eyes glazed and expression dazed, struggled just to exist. He collected himself after a few minutes of this and pinned Sparrow’s hips with his own, reaching down with his mouth and engulfing a pert nipple, pinching it with his canines and forcing a squeal from Sparrow’s lips. Arthur gave a nervous laugh. “You gotta slow down,” he begged her. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had the pleasure of anyone other than his hand. “You feel so good, darlin’,” he murmured in her ear, propping himself up on his elbows as he slowly, achingly drove himself in and out of her. He felt her walls clamp down on him, so he kept up the rhythm until she mewled, scratching lines down his back. “You like that?” he asked her, cupping her cheek in one of his hands. She nodded and turned her head toward his hand, engulfing his index finger in her hot mouth, sucking her own essence off of it. “Christ God,” Arthur murmured, eyebrows raising. This woman knew what she was doing.

Sparrow prodded him in the side, flipping them so that she was riding him. Arthur put his hands on her waist, guiding her up and down, but after a few minutes she slid off him.

“Now hang on,” he started, but he threw his head back and gave an embarrassingly high-pitched sound when she put her mouth on his cock and swallowed him halfway down her throat. “You sure you ain’t lookin’ for a husband?” he managed to squeak out, letting himself buck his hips up into the warmth and suction of her mouth. Sparrow sucked almost hard enough to hurt, moving her mouth up and down the length of him while one of her hands rolled his balls around with an expert massaging motion. She slid her mouth off with a deliciously filthy popping sound, her saliva and his precum connecting her red lips to the head of his cock for a moment. Arthur was certain that if he were an older man, he would have gone apoplectic at the sight. As it was, he tipped his head back and stared up at the heavens, thanking whichever lucky star was kind enough to send this woman to him.

“You alright?” she asked him with a little laugh, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm.

“Shoar,” he sighed, not knowing if he could still go on, he was so overwhelmed with pleasure. He jumped and grunted when he felt her press a wet fingertip against his asshole. “What in the hell are you doin’?” he demanded, sitting up abruptly.

“Do you want to find out, or do you want to ask stupid questions?” she asked him, her tone blunt.

“Seems to me you’re stickin’ your finger where the sun don’t shine,” he griped defensively, feeling his cock flagging a bit at the unexpected violation. Sparrow smiled.

“I’ve learned a few things in my travels, Mr. Morgan. When you’re a dying woman, you don’t much care what everyone thinks is proper. You care what feels good. Shall I continue?”

“I don’t know,” he started, hesitant, squinting at her for a moment. Her suggestion seemed obscene, but Arthur had always been open-minded… Sparrow distracted him from his thoughts by sliding her mouth back over his cock and giving a deep suck, running her tongue along the underside until he fisted his fingers into the blanket they had laid beneath them. He collapsed back, breathing hard. “You kin do whatever you want,” he finally conceded, powerless against her touch. She continued to work her mouth up and down his cock as she made another attempt at what she wanted to try. Arthur gasped when she pushed her finger against him again, sliding gently, slowly inside of him. At first it was deeply uncomfortable, and he felt singularly violated. He was just about to tell her to stop when the end of her finger touched something in him that he did not have the words to describe. He was like dough beneath her hands, allowing himself to relax as she ruined him for all other women.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god,” someone kept repeating in a hoarse voice. Arthur was just about to tell them to shut the hell up when he realized it was him hollering. He shuddered as Sparrow slipped her finger out of him and her mouth off him, sinking back onto his cock with her dripping slit.

“I cain’t,” he told her almost apologetically as he pushed up into her, hands kneading the soft flesh at her waist, “I cain’t stop, I’ve gotta – ”

“Yes,” she told him, “yes.” He flipped her around so she was on all fours and he rammed himself deep inside her, rutting into her like a madman, his fingers keeping a bruising grip on her hips. He canted his head back, desperately sucking in air as he pumped in and out of her, both of them hollering and moaning like a pack of wolves in heat. Slowing for just a moment, Arthur reached around Sparrow’s hip and rubbed his fingers against the front of her slit, finding that pink nub that made her cry out his name when he massaged it. Together they tipped over the edge, Arthur growling out Sparrow’s name as he spilled himself inside her, pleasure exploding from the tips of his toes and tingling all the way to his fingers. He slid wetly out of her a few moments later, his finish dripping out of her. She reached for her pack and pulled out a rag, wiping herself off before handing it to him. Cleaning himself just enough so that he wouldn’t stick to the blanket, the big outlaw collapsed backwards, utterly spent.

“Now where,” Arthur managed to rasp a few moments later as she laid down next to him and cuddled into his side, “where the _hell_ did you learn all that?” Beside him, Sparrow laughed.

“Would you believe me if I told you I read that in a book?” Arthur barked a laugh. “You’re the first gentleman who ever let me try that last thing, though,” she added, and he hummed.

“Well,” he said, drawling the word lazily, “it was worth the attempt. Don’t know if I’ll ever find another woman willing to do that again,” he said, sounding regretful.

“I take it that having a finger ‘where the sun don’t shine’ felt good?”

“That’s one word for it,” Arthur said dryly, still pulling in big gulps of air like a bellows. He couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath here lately. Pushing worry for himself away, he turned to Sparrow and frowned, noticing that she looked paler than normal. “You alright?”

“Just a bit tuckered out,” she breathed. “Nothing a bit of rest won’t help. I suppose we should at least put on underwear.”

“Nah,” he objected, not feeling like getting up. “We’ll deal with clothes in the morning. Here.” He sat up just enough to grab another blanket and tugged it over them. It was a clear night, and a bit cool, but the two of them, wrapped closely together in the blankets, had all the heat they needed.

Sparrow awoke to the sound of a Tropical Mockingbird singing in a loud voice somewhere within a group of bushes. She stood, stretched, and pulled on her clothes, kissing Arthur gently on the forehead. He stirred a bit but didn’t wake immediately. Fiddling with the fire, Sparrow brought it back to life and added some small branches, starting a pot of coffee. When Arthur finally did wake, he reddened when he looked at her. Sparrow chuckled at him.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Arthur. I quite enjoyed last night.” He grumbled something under his breath, pouring himself a cup of coffee and sitting after he pulled on clothes. Shyly, he looked up from staring at his feet and grinned at her.

“I did too. So. What’s your plan for today?” He asked her. Arthur’s stomach sank when she answered.

“I was thinking you could take me to the train station.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed at the sound of defeat in his own voice, Arthur busied himself with making some split rounds, his knuckles white on the handle of his knife.

“Unless…you don’t want to travel with me to my next study site…?” Sparrow asked. Arthur perked up immediately at that.

“Of course,” he told her, ignoring the niggling voice that was reminding him he needed to go back to camp.

Camp would still be there when he got back.


	5. A Friend and a Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur runs into an old friend and Sparrow asks a favor, leading to an unexpected repayment. (AKA another smut chapter).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: M/M/F Threesome  
CW: anal sex  
CW: vaginal sex  
CW: oral sex
> 
> If Arthur/Albert is not your cup of tea, you can skip everything after the *** in this chapter if you prefer. I will reiterate important plot points in the next chapter.

Arthur’s eyes watered from the blow to his nose, but he slung his arm back again with a snarl, his bloody fist clenched to deliver another strike when he felt someone tugging insistently on his elbow.

“Stop it! Stop, you ridiculous man, who cares what he said about me or my pants? Jesus, Arthur, settle down!” Arthur looked over his shoulder at Sparrow, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to calm. He released the hand that was bundled in the rude man’s shirt and slung him back. The man said something nasty under his breath, but he trundled off without further violence. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Arthur. There are plenty of men in the world with opinions about how women should dress or act. He’s just one in a line of many who’ve felt the need to comment about it. Now, come on, before you end up with a bounty here too,” she griped. “Help me carry my bags and we’ll retrieve Satan. I’ll need to purchase another horse while we’re here. Well?” Sparrow asked her outlaw companion, her tone sharp.

“Nothin’,” he muttered, his voice a little nasal through his swollen nose. Sparrow softened. Arthur was just trying to help. He seemed to be some sort of tragic knight-in-shining-armor who had ended up in both the wrong time period, and the wrong circumstances, Sparrow thought. She knew he felt he had to defend the honor of any perceived friend. Telling Arthur not to intervene was like telling a river not to flow, or the sun not to shine.

“Come on,” she prodded, taking one of his hands, feeling a bloody knuckle beneath her thumb. He winced. “We’ll stop at the meat market. They should have some ice, and a slab of steak for that eye you…man, you.” Sparrow resisted the urge to call Arthur ‘silly’ or ‘foolish,’ knowing it would only hurt his pride, even if she meant it in jest. She sighed. “Thank you, Arthur,” she settled instead, granting him a small smile. He looked at her from beneath the brim of his hat, which he had just smashed down over his unruly hair. He said nothing in response, but she saw the corners of his lips tug upwards slightly and his cheeks flushed. He just wanted to be appreciated for trying. Good Lord, what had happened to this man that any amount of care or affection made his eyes light up like that? “You stay here,” Sparrow suggested, leading Arthur to a bench just outside the butcher’s shop, which shared a building with the general store. “I’ll be right back.”

Sparrow stepped inside and located a cheap steak that would do the trick.

“I’ll sell it to ya, ma’am,” the butcher said, “But it ain’t much good fer anythin’ but a stew.”

“And for a black eye?” she asked with a mischievous smile. He chuckled.

“For that it’ll work wonders. I’ll pack it up for ya. Need anything else?”

“I don’t suppose you have any ice?”

“None I can spare, unfortunately, but if you’ll step over there to Mason’s counter, he sells syrup-flavored shaved ice. Maybe he can help ya. That’ll be two bits.” Sparrow handed him the coins, taking the paper-wrapped steak.

“Thank you, sir,” Sparrow told him gratefully, stepping away from the counter to survey what the general store had available. She picked up a few small tubes of paint and, after a moment’s thought, grabbed a little box of colored pencils for Arthur. She had seen him scribbling in that mysterious notebook of his. She caught glimpses of its pages here and there and had noticed that his sketches of animals and people were quite good. Someone with such a hard life deserved the occasional indulgence, she thought to herself, not caring about spending too much money. She was living on borrowed time anyway, and it wasn’t as though she could take her money with her wherever she was going.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted Mason, the general store clerk. “I was told I could purchase some ice from you?”

“What flavor would you like?” he asked in a bored tone as he wrote up a receipt for the rest of the things she had placed on the counter. She thought for a moment before specifying her request.

\------------

_ “I don’t quite know what it is I am doing with this lovely young woman. I figure at some point she’ll realize what a mistake she has made paying me any mind at all. Maybe her illness has addled her brains, I don’t know. All I know is that she’s pretty, and smart, and everything I look for in a woman, including the fact that her father is dead so I don’t have to deal with another jackass telling me what a worthless criminal I am…speaking of which, I do wonder what Mary would think of me taking up with another woman. I don’t reckon that’s any of her business, regardless, but it makes my belly ache something fierce thinking on it for too long. Whatever this business with Miss Sparrow is, I won’t label it ‘love.’ I don’t think my heart could take that any more than hers can.”_

Arthur was scrawling in his journal, his tongue captured in the corner of his lip with fierce concentration as he drew a fair likeness of Sparrow across the page from his scribbled entry.

“For your eye,” Sparrow said suddenly from in front of him, making him jump. She was holding out a steak wrapped in a thin cloth. “For your knuckles,” she held out a cloth-wrapped ice cube. “And for your sweet tooth,” she finished, handing him a little paper cone piled high with shaved ice drenched with sticky red syrup. “Here, lean back.” She held the steak to his eye and the ice to the knuckles of his right hand. His left hand took the snow cone.

“Well, thank ye!” Arthur said, delighted. He rarely allowed himself such treats. Usually half a peppermint stick shared with his horse was all the sugar he let himself waste money on. His tongue darted out to lick the red ice, relishing the sweet flavor and coolness of it. Though fall was beginning, it was still swelteringly hot in the afternoon sun, and he was grateful for the treat. His blissful enjoyment faltered when he felt Sparrow’s eyes on him, her expression almost predatory. She was entranced with the motion of his tongue against the ice, her own snow cone going largely forgotten, dripping down the sides of the paper cone and onto her delicate hand. Arthur blushed and took a bite of the ice, his eyes glittering with desire at the way she watched him. Since their recent brush with death, the two could scarcely keep their hands off one another when in private. What had begun as harmless cuddling turned to urgent fornication in the darkness of their train cab on the way to their new destination, a hot swampy area of Lemoyne, just northwest of Saint Denis. Over the scent of dust, and raw steak and sweet snow cone syrup, Arthur knew he still smelled like sex.

“I was thinking perhaps we could stay the night at a hotel,” Sparrow suggested. “Take a bath…sleep in an actual bed.”

“Just sleep?” Arthur purred, unable to help himself. He shifted in his seat, his jeans suddenly a bit too tight between the legs. Sparrow chuckled.

“Among other things,” she answered. “What do you say? Are you game?”

“I reckon I could stand a break from rocks and sticks and grass burrs underneath my back for one night,” Arthur drawled, looking appreciatively at a young woman who walked past before Sparrow tipped his gaze back to her with a finger on his chin.

“Bonjour!” the woman greeted him with a demure smile, ignoring Sparrow.

“Don’t make me start a fight,” Sparrow murmured teasingly in Arthur’s ear, “there isn’t enough ice for my knuckles too.” Arthur chuckled.

“Just…enjoyin’ the local wildlife,” he assured her. “Speaking of which, I'll be goddamned, he's still alive! Mr. Mason, over here!”

“Mr. Morgan! How delightful! Did you get that picture of the armadillo I posted? I sent it to your box in Rhodes. Yes, good! Ah, hello!”

“Hello,” Sparrow said, friendly, but confused. Arthur had gone quite red now and suddenly seemed to be back-pedaling as Mr. Mason put a friendly…a _very_ friendly hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Mason, this is Miss Callaghan. Er, uh, Albert, Sparrow,” Arthur concluded awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. Albert looked at Arthur with an expression of almost lovesickness and it clicked for Sparrow. Ah. One of those gentlemen who finds himself enjoying the company of men as well as or instead of women, she thought, with no derision or disgust in her mind. She had no problem with those whose preferences did not match her own. She held out a hand for Albert to shake. His palm was warm, but soft in hers. A line appeared between his brows and he seemed to be thinking very hard about something and when it finally came to him, he crowed, delighted.

“_The_ Miss Callaghan?! My goodness, it would seem I stand in the presence of true greatness. My dear Mister Morgan, wherever did you meet this lovely woman? Her work is renowned in the naturalist community. I personally have read a great many guides featuring her astonishing artwork.” Arthur opened his mouth to answer several times, but Albert just talked over him, gushing over Sparrow’s work. “Your use of color, madam, it is just astounding. The mind boggles. When I think of my humble equipment endeavoring to capture the natural beauty that you so effortlessly portray in your work, well…” he paused for a moment, seeming to have stumped himself, “Well, it almost makes me want to hang it up,” he admitted with a distressed expression on his friendly face.

“Nonsense, Mr. Mason. The work photographers do is singularly important. The accuracy in portraying field identifiers, not to mention the public appeal that benefits conservation...I have a great deal of respect for anyone willing to lug camera equipment into the wild, regardless.” Albert’s face looked delighted at that, and Sparrow smiled kindly at him. When she looked over at Arthur, she almost cackled at the uncomfortable expression on his handsome features. He was flicking his gaze guiltily between the two of them. She could imagine why, given his open-mindedness and a wicked little idea began to grow in her mind. She smiled at Arthur and then turned back to Albert. “Mr. Mason, you’ll have to forgive me, I need to make some hotel arrangements. Perhaps you and Mr. Morgan could wait for me in the saloon?”

“Why certainly, it will give me a wonderful opportunity to catch up with my dear friend. Come along, Arthur!”

\-------------------------

“And why on Earth would I do that, madam? I have absolutely no desire to cull them. In fact, they’re quite lovely!”

“Certainly, for a pest species,” Sparrow shot off angrily, knocking back another shot of whiskey. Once again Arthur found himself glancing back and forth between the two naturalists, this time prepared to stop a fight. The two of them had been discussing various conservation topics, most of them going over Arthur’s head, but he could tell that this topic was controversial. They had all been drinking for a while now and the two ordinarily soft-spoken scientists were now battling it out verbally. “European starlings are invasive!” Sparrow insisted in a loud voice, slamming her glass down.

“Yes, but they are, nonetheless, charismatic! They’re an excellent species to get the public interested in nature,” Albert shot back, sipping at his fourth glass of brandy.

“Oh, because Rainbow Buntings, and Northern Harriers and Great Blue Herons aren’t charismatic enough?” Sparrow demanded, arching a brow imperiously.

“I, uh, I think I’m gonna call it a night,” Arthur announced, beginning stand.

“Oh, no, please don’t go, Mr. Morgan,” Albert begged, covering one of Arthur’s hands with his own.

“No, he’s right, we need to get to our room,” Sparrow interrupted. She regretted it almost instantly at the crestfallen expression on Albert’s face.

“It was…real good, seein’ you again, Mr. Mason,” Arthur murmured, tugging his hand away, but not unkindly.

“Hang on a moment, Arthur,” Sparrow said softly, looking intently at her fellow naturalist. “Mr. Mason, I have rather a large favor to ask of you.”

“Arthur here has certainly helped me enough. It would hardly be fair for me to deny assistance to one of his friends,” Albert said evenly, his demeanor relaxing. Sparrow nodded and sat again, gesturing that Arthur should do the same.

“Mr. Mason, I’ll be blunt. I’m dying. Heart condition,” she explained when he opened his mouth to ask. Sparrow ignored Albert’s shocked look and pressed on. “I’m trying to finish as many species paintings as I can before I pass, but I have no one to manage my work, no one to ensure it gets published. Could I…would you…?” Albert’s eyes widened.

“Of course, my dear lady,” Albert said, catching on immediately. “Just make arrangements to get your work sent to my office at the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas. I hold an adjunct position there.” Sparrow breathed out a sigh of relief.

“I’ll make the arrangements. Thank you so much, Mr. Mason. If only there were some way I could repay you,” she murmured, putting a hand on both his and Arthur’s hands on the table. Both their eyebrows flew upwards.

“Well, I…I imagine that anything you…I suppose I…there’s no repayment necessary, anything to forward public opinion of our natural world,” Albert blithered. Sparrow met Arthur’s eyes with a question, and he nodded ever so slightly, looking a bit nervous, but eager.

“Our room is number four, just upstairs. We should be available around seven this evening,” Sparrow told him, rising. “I hope that information is payment enough,” she purred, letting her hand linger on his shoulder before walking away. Arthur followed her to the baths. Once the door closed behind them, he turned to her, scratching at his chin.

“Uh, you should know, I’ve never, uh, I don’t know what…”

“It’s alright,” she assured him, pulling her clothes off and slipping into the hot water of the tub. “So long as you want to…with him?”

“I, er, yeah, I want to, but…well, you know, try that with the wrong feller and you’re liable to get yourself hung, so I’ve never tried it,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt and pants and sliding into the tub across from her so that her feet were propped on his muscular thighs, just under the steaming water.

“If there is one thing that dying young has taught me, Arthur, it’s that you should embrace any opportunity for fun, or for pleasure. Life is meant for the living. You like Albert, don’t you?” Arthur blushed crimson.

“I liked that fool from the moment I set eyes on him,” he admitted.

“Well, then. I think it’s quite clear how he feels about you, so I think you’re in no danger of being reported. We’ll all have a night of fun, and I’ll get my work published. Win-win.”

“Yeah, about that, just how famous a naturalist are you?” he asked, crinkling his nose as she poured a strong smelling soap in the water.

“You know that field guide you carry in your satchel?” Sparrow asked with a wry look.

“Yeah, why?” Arthur responded. She huffed a laugh.

“You should look at it a little more closely next time you open it.” Curious, Arthur dried his hands on a towel and drug his satchel close, pulling the field guide out.

“‘Illustrated by S.N. Callaghan.’ Well, I’ll be goddamned, you’re a regular celebrity,” he smirked, replacing the book and the bag well away from the tub.

“Hardly,” she laughed. “Most people just assume ‘S.N. Callaghan’ is a man.” Arthur pulled Sparrow close, nibbling at her jaw affectionately.

“You are a lotta things, Miss Sparrow. But a man ain’t one of ‘em.” Arthur was just sliding a gentle finger into her slit when there was an abrupt and loud banging on the door.

“Y’all just about done in there?” asked an obnoxious voice. Arthur sighed.

“Jest…give us a minute,” he griped, standing and handing Sparrow a towel. They dried and dressed quickly, Arthur tucking his half-erect cock down his pantleg with a scowl.

***

\-----

There was a timid knock at the door. Albert stepped inside quickly to avoid detection.

“I almost didn’t come,” he confided. “I didn’t think…I didn’t know…oh.” His jaw dropped when he looked over at the bed where Arthur was lying lazily on his side, wearing nothing but his hat and bandana. “Oh my,” Albert murmured.

“I figured if you were doing me a favor, I might as well do you one as well, Mr. Mason,” Sparrow told him. “I can either stay, or I can go downstairs and have a few drinks, whichever you prefer.” Albert looked between the two of them and chuckled nervously.

“Please, Miss Callaghan, please stay.”

“Now, you oughta know, I ain’t never done anythin’ like this before,” Arthur told him, reddening and sitting up on the bed.

“That’s alright, dear friend. I’ve experience enough for the both of us. Now then, I don’t suppose you have any lotion?” he asked. Sparrow produced a bottle, climbing onto the bed and patting the spot next to her.

A few awkward, painstaking minutes later after about half a bottle of whiskey shared between them, they were all tangled together, taking turns kissing Arthur.

“I don’t quite know what I’ve done to deserve this, but…well, I ain’t complainin’,” Arthur drawled as he laid on his back, Albert sucking and biting his chest, Sparrow sucking on his cock.

“So, what did you have in mind for this evening, Miss Callaghan?” Albert asked, a perpetual gentleman.

Sparrow sat up, wiping her mouth demurely.

“I have a few ideas, provided Arthur is open to them.”

“I’m open to anythin’ so long as it don’t get me arrested,” he muttered.

“Well, I intend to stay well-hidden within these walls, Mr. Morgan. I have no delusions about the average man’s opinion about my…tendencies,” Albert answered.

“Hmm,” Arthur hummed in agreement, running a rough palm down Albert’s chest, making the smaller man shudder with pleasure. Sparrow verbalized her idea, raising the brows of both the gentlemen in her company. “And, uh, am I going to be able to ride a horse in the mornin’?” Arthur asked doubtfully after he had heard a description that made the tips of his ears burn bright red.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan, I’ll be gentle,” Albert assured him. Sparrow guided the two gentlemen, gently coaxing Arthur to interest and preparing him. He grunted and hissed at her ministrations, but he was patient and open-minded about the whole thing. A few minutes later, Albert was buried deep inside Arthur, thrusting his hips forward and backward enthusiastically as Arthur stood slightly bent over, gasping. The big outlaw had very nearly gone cross-eyed with the pleasurable sensation of being entered. His short nails dug into his own palms as the stretch burned at his core, but the answering pleasure as Albert pressed in and out of him more than made up for any discomfort.

Sparrow knelt in front of Arthur, sucking expertly on his cock, her mouth making wet, sloppy noises as Albert had his way with him.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Arthur cried out softly, the sensations almost too much. “Oh god,” he stuttered as Albert rammed into him again and again as Sparrow kept up her steady work with her mouth. The two naturalists found a rhythm and matched one another, and Arthur felt his knees go wobbly. He struggled to keep his feet, letting out a small whine as Sparrow switched her mouth to suck on one of his balls, her hand still working up and down his shaft. “I can’t, I’m about to, oh, slow down,” Arthur begged, his knuckles going white on the chair he was grasping at to remain standing.

Obliging, Sparrow released her grip and climbed onto the bed on all fours. Albert slid out of Arthur as the big man lunged forward, jamming his cock deep inside of Sparrow with a growled moan of pleasure. He rasped in a breath, grabbing at Sparrow’s sides and keening a loud cry when Albert sank behind him and pressed back in again. The two moved in harmony, Arthur filling Sparrow and Albert filling Arthur. Sparrow looked over her shoulder at Arthur, whose face was bunched into an expression of extreme concentration.

“If I die like this, at least it’s a good way to go,” she muttered with a laugh, panting as Arthur drove into her, every stroke of Albert inside him forcing a rough grunt or moan from his thick pink lips, which were hanging open as he sucked in air in the warm room.

“Oh, I’m done for,” Arthur announced, slamming hard into Sparrow’s backside, his balls slapping against her thighs, “I’m done for, I can’t, I’m gonna, oooof,” he shuddered, spilling himself deep inside Sparrow. She slid off him and turned, licking his finish off his cock while Albert continued, coaxing another series of moans from Arthur before climaxing as well. He pulled carefully out of Arthur, nearly collapsing backwards off the bed. They all lay back for a few minutes, panting, in various states of stickiness and sweat. “Well. That was…somethin’,” Arthur said a few minutes later after he had caught his breath.

“I never thought that would happen,” Albert admitted, looking shyly over at Arthur.

“Gentlemen, you should always follow your heart. And sometimes your heart says to fuck like there is no tomorrow, because there may not be,” Sparrow declared, dragging herself out of the bed and offering them each a moistened rag. She lit a cigarette, offering Arthur one.

“You sure you should be smoking that?” he questioned skeptically, sitting up with the barest hint of a wince. Sparrow stared at him with an expression of dry amusement.

“Why, because you think the smoke might kill me early?” Arthur swatted a hand at her in irritation and let her do as she pleased, always the best policy with Sparrow.

“Well,” Albert said, rising and pulling on his clothing, “much as I have _thoroughly_ enjoyed the evening with you two, I am afraid I must bid you ‘adieu.’ It simply wouldn’t do to be caught in your room in the morning, and I’m certain you two have other things to, er, ah, do, I suppose. Miss Callaghan, I cannot thank you enough for the…opportunity. Mr. Morgan,” his tone slipped into a tone of deep affection, “until the next time I need you to save me from the wilderness.” He held out a hand and shook Arthur’s. The outlaw held his hand a beat or three longer than he absolutely had to, smiling softly at the bearded man.

“Be careful out there, friend,” Arthur warned, his voice warm with fondness.

“You as well, my dear friend. Miss Callaghan, here is my card. Please do make arrangements for your paintings to be sent. I look forward to seeing your work, but I hope I don’t for quite some time. Take care of yourself in the meantime. Good evening.”

With that, the young naturalist slipped out of their room, closing the door gently behind him.


	6. I've Got Ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur admits something to Sparrow.

They were laying side by side beneath the tent, as they had grown accustomed to doing when they were resting for the evening, when Arthur’s hand reached out to find Sparrow’s.

“Do you ever wonder why things turn out the way they do? I mean, your life and your…well, shit, I guess I’d call it your fate? Do you think there’s any rhyme or reason to it?” he asked her.

“I think we’re all just trying to make our way in the world, Arthur,” she answered after a few moments.

“I’ve been with other women, you know,” he told her, non sequitur. He grimaced, pulling several displeased faces before he decided on what he was going to say. “I’ve loved a woman. So, I don’t know how to feel about this. Us. I know this is all just…temporary. Just an intermission in the show, one might say. But I lo…like you, regardless.” He stood, bending over to escape the tent, sitting by the fire instead. Sparrow clambered out of the tent as well and then sat across from him, patient, waiting. He had been oddly pensive the past few weeks, ever since they had left the city. “But you know,” Arthur began again, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the fire where it sizzled, “I don’t reckon I kin stay out here with you very much longer,” he said regretfully, not meeting Sparrow’s eyes and instead staring at the fire.

“Arthur…”

“Hang on, I’ve gotta say my piece,” he continued, resolutely staring at his hands now, refusing to look at Sparrow. “You…you’ve shown me some…thangs about myself,” he chuckled, and Sparrow knew he was referencing their night with Albert and the many other things she had shown him in bed. “And fer that I am _very_ grateful,” he went on, “but I gotta get back to my people…I’ve got thangs that need doin’,” he drawled with a soft huff of breath where he paused. It was clear he was upset by the way he was fidgeting in place and cracking his big knuckles. He finally met Sparrow’s gaze. “I got people…other people who need me.”

“I could come with you,” Sparrow said softly.

“Don’t,” he begged, his jaw clenching, his eyes squinting in pain at her offering. “Don’t do that to me. Please. I can’t be responsible for your life being harder, rougher. I am an outlaw, Ms. Callaghan, in case you’ve forgotten. Stayin’ with me, it’s…” He paused, huffing, aggravated. “It ain’t no good for anybody,” he finished. “I want better for you than me,” he whispered miserably. “I’ve made so many mistakes in my life, and, I don’t know, I reckon maybe some of ‘em weren’t my fault, but…you cain’t come with me. I figure I could check in on you, now and again, but this stayin’ it’s…I got my priorities wrong. I gotta get my head back on straight, I…” His voice trailed off. “You’re the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to me, and…I don’t want to ruin this, but…” His gave up trying to find an ending to his sentence, instead wiping a hand across his mouth in frustration, his big shoulders slumping.

The fire crackled, and then gave a loud pop as a log burnt in half and fell. Nearby, Satan and his new companion Goldie nickered softly to one another, cropping at the grass. Sparrow was silent for a long, long moment. Crickets sang around them and in the distance, a screech owl gave its twittering cry.

“How much longer do we have?” Sparrow asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking. Arthur sighed.

“I don’t know. I was thinking maybe a month. Shorter than that if someone comes and gets me.”

“A month. Alright.” A lot could change in a month, Sparrow thought. A lot had changed in the three months they had been travelling together, after all.

“Now, I…I don’t particularly want to talk about it anymore, if it’s all the same to you. I’d like to jist…enjoy the ev’nin,” he forced out, his face a little red and his voice trembling just a bit.

“Alright, Arthur,” Sparrow agreed, her heart aching. She loved this big, brave, kind man, she realized. She loved the way the light danced in his eyes when she teased him. She loved the way the lines crinkled beneath his brow when he squinted through his binoculars to spot a bird for her. She loved the way his lips would purse when he was holding in a laugh. She loved the way he’d scratch the back of his big jaw when he got nervous asking her about something. She loved that he was adventurous, both in bed and in the field. She loved the way he showed he cared by making sure he woke up first to be the one who had to kick the fire to life and make the coffee. She loved the way he curled himself around her at night to make sure she was warm, and comfortable. She loved how he would wrap his arm around her waist and place his hand between her breasts just to assure himself she was there, and breathing. She loved the way he would drawl more when he was trying to be funny, or a smart ass. She loved all his little ticks, and movements and mannerisms. But most of all she loved that he never treated her like a delicate flower. He never reminded her that she was dying and in doing this he made her feel more alive than she had felt in years.

She did not want to lose this, but she understood. He had spoken here and there about his family, about Dutch and Hosea and the others. She could see the conflict in him, the way he wrestled with being a good man who had been brought into circumstances he could not control. How could one possibly expect a man to be good when he was brought up around badness? How could one argue that robbing despicable, wealthy, indolent businessmen was bad, for that matter? Weren’t they the real evil, anyway? Sparrow sighed, moving around the fire to cuddle against Arthur’s side.

A meteor shot across the sky, leaving a bright streak of light behind it. It looked like it landed somewhere northeast of them.

“I’d like to make love to you, if you’d let me,” he told her, turning his head to meet her eyes.

“I’d like that, Mr. Morgan,” she whispered softly. He reached his hand out and caressed her lips with his thumb. That was all it took for the dam to burst, for their desperation and the grief of their impending separation to overwhelm them. In a moment, Arthur had snatched her up, slinging them both into the tent and lying on his back, pulling her atop him, kissing her with rough lips, surrounded by stubble. Her hands were buried in his hair, and one of his was grasping at her ass while the other ran down her back. The night was cool, but not unbearably so. He slipped her blouse off and palmed over her breasts, pinching her pink nipples with calloused fingers, making her gasp into his mouth as he continued kissing her, his harsh movements against her lips almost bruising as he nibbled and sucked her lower lip into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth for a moment before releasing it, meeting her eyes with a soft groan as one of her hands travelled between them and grasped him through his pants.

A rough purr rumbling through him, he pulled Sparrows hips until her slit was aligned with his mouth and he forced her to sink down onto his face, burying himself between her thighs. She threw her head back in ecstasy as he lapped and sucked and caressed her folds with his tongue and his talented fingers, gently working her toward orgasm. His tongue flicked out and rubbed roughly against her wet slit as he buried two thick fingers inside her, calling her with a “come hither” gesture that sent her over the edge. In the distance, a bird was singing as dusk fell over the arid setting.

“A Tropical Mockingbird,” Sparrow rasped out and Arthur smiled and kissed the inside of one pale thigh. There was a trilling hoot. “Burrowing owl,” she smiled, rotating her hips and grinding herself down onto his mouth as he met her eyes, his own eyes almost black with lust dilating his pupils. As the purples and pinks of the setting sun began to dull, an eerie “_zeerp, zeerp_” could be heard overhead.

“What’s that one?” Arthur gasped, pushing her hips up so he could take a deep breath.

“A Lesser…oh!” She threw her head back again as his hand stroked her gently, “A Lesser nighthawk,” she identified.

“I may not know much about birds,” he admitted, “but I know there’s a song for dawn, and a song for dusk. They’re singin’ one last time before the night comes, letting everybody know they’re alive before darkness settles over this valley,” he murmured, adjusting them so she was sitting in his lap and he could whisper in her ear. “They know that they’ll have to survive ‘til morning before they can sing their dawn song. Come on,” he murmured, “let’s sing our dusk song, beautiful.” He flipped them, laying her down on their pallets and kissing her neck, caressing the soft, pale skin with rough fingers as her hands unbuttoned his shirt and his pants. She took his cock in her hands, stroking him with professional motions that made him growl deep and low in his throat.

Sinking her hands into the globes of his buttocks, she pulled him toward her face, swallowing his cock in one gulp and lapping at him, moving him in and out of her mouth as she met his eyes. He cursed, his abdominal muscles jumping as she ran her fingernails down his sides. Pulling hesitantly away from the warmth and suction of her mouth, he sank downwards, running his fingers again over the dripping wetness of her cunt before he sank in to the hilt, drawing an open-mouthed cry from her in response. He plunged in and out of her, reveling in her tightness, and her warmth, his own mouth drawn open with the effort, sucking in great gusts of breath as he cleaved to her, sinking himself inside her and moving with her until neither could tell where one began and the other ended.

Fingernails raked down his back and fingers tangled in her hair as they moved together, panting hard into one another’s mouths as they kissed one another, seeking comfort in their closeness, trying, with desperate, needy movements, to ignore the realities they faced outside this tent.

“I…I love you,” Arthur rasped out as he finished, emptying himself inside her and drawing Sparrow even closer to him with an almost rib-cracking embrace.

“I love you too,” she answered quietly, but she suddenly felt very ill. She could feel her heartbeat pounding behind her eyes and nausea shot through her. Her chest felt like an elephant was standing on it. She gasped out a ragged breath. “Arthur,” she cried, sucking in air desperately. He pulled himself off her and helped her sit up, stroking her back as she tried to breathe. “My heart…” She roughly gasped, eyes watering with the pain in her chest, which was radiating up her back and neck and jaw.

“No,” he growled out. “No, please. No, Sparrow, darlin’…here, jest, jest lie back,” he begged, pulling her into his lap so that her back was against his chest. He offered her his water canteen and she took it, forcing herself to drink. “Deep breaths now, darlin’, there you go,” he comforted her, running a large palm over the top of her head as though he was comforting a horse. “Easy now,” he murmured. Sparrow wanted to make a smart ass comment about how she was not a spooked mare, but she couldn’t get enough breath in to do so. Arthur sat with her quietly as her heart spasmed in her chest. At last, the pain subsided and Sparrow sucked in air with greedy gulps, Arthur worrying over her, his face dark with concern. “You a’right?” he asked her, brows pulled tightly together. She laughed.

“You already know I’m not, Arthur.”

“I didn’t mean it…I didn’t mean to break your heart tellin' ya I gotta leave,” he told her in a guilty tone.

“It was already broken,” Sparrow rasped out.

“Hmm. Well, I didn’t mean to hurt ya. I…maybe I kin stay with ya, maybe I can tell Dutch I…I don’t know…”

“Arthur, you are not responsible for this. I’ve got a bad heart. This was always a possibility…an inevitability, really.” Arthur clenched his jaw hard enough that Sparrow heard his teeth squeak.

“I wish ta God things were diff’rent,” he said softly, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand.

“But they aren’t, Arthur. And we can’t change them, we can only accept them.”

“I know,” he ground out. “Don’t make it any easier, though.”

“I’m tired,” Sparrow murmured.

“Just lie back, then. I’ve got ya.” In the distance, an unknown bird gave a sad, wailing cry that ran a shiver up Arthur’s spine. He swallowed hard and pulled the blankets over them both, stroking Sparrow’s hair as her breathing slowed. “I’ve got ya.”


	7. Departure and Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A departure, and a return.

A month. Just a month. Sparrow swallowed hard as she sat across from Arthur where they were eating a meagre dinner of rabbit. He glanced up at her, gave her a smile that broke her heart. Damn it. Goddammit! This was not supposed to happen. She was supposed to go to the wilderness, document birds and then die somewhere in the wilds left the hell alone. Best laid plans, she thought as she reached into her satchel. Now was as good a time as any.

“I got somethin’ for you. Back in town. Here. Thought maybe you’d like these to add a little color to your journal.” She held out the box of colored pencils. Arthur took them hesitantly, opening the little tin box with a small, delighted gasp.

“Miss Sparrow…I don’t quite know what to say,” he admitted, two big fingers picking up one of the pencils and holding it up to survey it.

“The usual response to being given a gift is ‘you’re welcome,’ if that helps.” He gave that dry chuckle of his that warmed her heart.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone sincere.

“And here,” she continued, pulling out a rolled piece of thick vellum. On it was a very accurate representation of a White-throated Sparrow. Arthur stared at it for a moment, and then looked at her over the top of it.

“Thank you. I mean it.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “And I meant what I said, you know. I do love you.” Sparrow scoffed.

“You love the idea of me, Arthur,” she said, shaking her head. “And I…well, let’s not make more of this than what it is.” The words very nearly caught in her throat, making her feel sick as they poured from her mouth. Arthur did a masterful job hiding the pain the words caused him, but she could see it there, lingering in those golden and blue eyes of his.

“If thangs were dif’rent…” he started. She held up a hand abruptly, stopping him.

“And if frogs had wings they wouldn’t bump their asses on the ground when they hopped. It is what it is, Arthur. Let’s just enjoy the time we have left,” she suggested in a dull tone. He nodded, his hat bobbing.

“Alright.”

“I’m gonna go wash some of my clothes down at the river if you’ll clean this up. I want to get started early in the morning. I heard an Eastern Meadowlark yesterday and I’d like to get a better look at it tomorrow.”

“I could help you with the laun–”

“I’ve got it,” she cut him off. His eyebrows rose and then pulled down and together in frustration.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” he mumbled, looking hurt. Sparrow couldn’t find the fortitude to soften her words. Just looking at him right now hurt too much.

\---------------

They only just got a month. Two weeks into the month, Micah showed up by happenstance, thundering past their camp after robbing a wagon. When he recognized Arthur, he approached.

“Well, there he is, then! He lives. And he ain’t been back to camp in quite a while.”

“I’ve been runnin’ out a bounty, Micah,” Arthur snapped, though at this point, it was a damned lie. “What in the hell do you want?”

“Me? I don’t want nothin’ from you, but Dutch is spittin’ mad. Wants to know where you are. Wants you back at camp, but I see here you’ve got other priorities. I knew you were different, Arthur, but I didn’t know you went in for men,” he laughed, pointing out Sparrow's attire. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“He really is an ass, isn’t he?” she remarked. Arthur had griped often and loudly about this particular gang member, usually after a few shots of whiskey.

“Don’t rightly know if ‘ass’ is a strong enough word,” Arthur growled, curling his fingers around his gunbelt so he didn’t yank Micah off his horse and beat the life out of him with his bare hands.

“Oh, I stand corrected, Arthur," Micah commented when Sparrow spoke, though all present knew full well she was all woman regardless of her choice of clothing. "Shouldn’t your woman be dressed, well, like a woman?” Micah taunted, an ugly sneer painted beneath his hideous mustache.

“Firstly, she ain’t ‘mine,’” Arthur corrected with a soft glance at Sparrow, “Secondly, I don’t see that it’s any of your goddamn business what anyone in my company does, Micah. Speaking of business, why don’t you go on and mind your own?” Micah gave a contemptuous laugh at that comment.

“You got a week, Morgan. If I don’t see you in camp in a week, I’ll tell Dutch and God and everyone I meet that you abandoned us for some…_woman_,” he spat the word as an insult as he stared daggers at Sparrow, “and you know the rules, Arthur. Dutch don’t tolerate deserters or traitors, and right now you are toeing the line very close to both,” he hissed.

“You tell Dutch I’ll be headed back when I’m done with my business,” Arthur snarled, holding out a hand with his index finger pointing accusingly at Micah, his face a mask of fury and hatred. Micah smiled nastily.

“I’ll see you in a week, Morgan. Or else.” With that, he tipped his hat mockingly at Sparrow and thundered away, kicking and spurring his horse with unnecessary force.

In the end, Arthur was a coward. A goddamned, good-for-nothing coward. A week after their encounter with Micah, Arthur packed his things, leaving as fast as he could go. He hollered “gee up!” at the horse he had bought two months ago, Goldie, pushing him to a steady gallop and leaving Satan whinnying sadly behind him. He didn’t even say goodbye to Sparrow, not properly anyway. Sure, they had made slow, desperate, aching love to one another last night, but he hadn’t woken her this morning. He had left his tent, and his coffee percolator and a few other things behind in his desperation not to bid her farewell. He knew if he tried, he would never be able to leave her. Arthur had also left a note, hastily scribbled on a torn-out page of his journal detailing the fake name Sparrow should write to, should she need him…well…should she need him more urgently than she surely needed him now. It made him nervous, leaving her alone, but at least in this new study site she was close by a town should she need anything. Her heart hadn’t acted up since that terrifying night a month ago, so he hoped she would be alright, at least for a while.

Arthur left her sleeping, his heart aching, wondering if he would see her again, both hoping that he would and that he wouldn’t. It helped nothing that Mary wanted to see him again, apparently. That was a mess, always had been, always would be. Arthur had never loved two people at the same time before and his stomach was a mess, aching and churning as he rode, clenching his jaw until his whole head ached and his temples pounded.

\-----

But Arthur couldn’t stay away. The business with Mary and her brother had been rough, but the sting had been lessened by the thought of Sparrow, somewhere out in the wilderness, watching birds and painting on Wednesdays. He pulled the vellum painting out frequently, several of his thumbprints along the edges of it where he held it tenderly. He wanted any excuse to visit her again, and as fate would have it, he was given one:

The first time he returned to Sparrow, he had narrowly escaped death once again. A few of the O’Driscoll gang had ambushed him, surrounding him in the woods and nearly killing him with fists and boots and gun butts. He was bruised and beaten, several of his ribs were cracked. His nose was broken, badly, swollen and crooked as a dog’s back leg. Still woozy from the beating and nearly collapsing with exhaustion, Arthur searched the prairie until he found signs of Sparrow’s camp, tracking her across grassland and into an oak belt. He found her there, a rabbit spitted over an open fire for her lunch. She looked pale, but otherwise healthy.

“Howdy, stranger,” he said as he walked up, tipping his hat. His voice was nasal due to his broken nose. Sparrow looked up and the joyful expression on her face when she recognized him might have added ten years to his life if she hadn’t immediately frowned and followed it with the tersely spoken words,

“What on earth do you want, Arthur Morgan?” He held out his hands to his sides and shrugged his shoulders.

“I jist…I was havin’ a rough time of it. Thought maybe you were too. Wanted to check and see how you been.” Seeing Arthur standing there, breathing hard through his mouth, his nose swollen and red made Sparrow tense, anger and concern flooding her. She softened.

“Are you alright?”

“I’ve been better,” he admitted with a wry chuckle.

“Oh Arthur,” she said softly, cupping a hand around his cheek. When she said those words, it didn’t make him feel vaguely sick the way they did when they came from Mary’s mouth. Instead they made him feel safe. Home. In a moment, Sparrow pulled him into a gentle hug, loosening her grip when she heard him cry out in pain. “Come here,” she prompted, tugging him toward her fire. “Sit down right there,” she said, indicating a stump. “Now, this is gonna hurt somethin’ awful,” she told him, slipping into her East Texas accent. He smiled at that, wincing when he felt one of his loosened teeth shift. She placed a thumb on each side of his nose, wrapping the rest of her fingers around behind his jaw to align them. He had been beat to hell and back and everything hurt, so how much worse could it...

“Ow! Son-of-a-_bitch!”_ he hollered as Sparrow wrenched his nose back into place with an agonizing crunch. He stood abruptly and paced around the fire, taking in deep breaths. After a moment he realized he could actually suck air in through his nostrils again, a notable improvement, though it hurt badly to do so. “Thank you,” he ground out after a moment.

“Well, you’re certainly more than your looks, Arthur, but I prefer you with a straight nose,” Sparrow teased. He glared at her from eyes watery with tears of pain.

“Very funny,” he muttered, but he came back to sit down beside her, his expression one of longing, and concern. “You alright?” She gave a facial shrug and tipped her head to one side.

“‘I’ve been better,’” she quoted back to him in a deep-voiced attempt at an impression of him and he chuckled again.

“Haven’t we all?” He looked up at the canopy of trees above them and pointed.

“Yellow warbler,” he commented.

“There are a lot of them here right now. Mixed flocks. Just today I’ve seen at least ten species, all flocking together. I even saw a creeper.”

“A creeper?” he asked incredulously, giving her an odd look. She laughed.

“Just another type of bird, Arthur. Small brown thing. Blends right into the bark of the trees unless you’re watching closely. Some naturalists will go their whole life without ever actually laying eyes on one, at least not knowingly.” He huffed a small laugh.

“Well. Ain’t that somethin’?” They were quiet for a few moments and then they looked at each other. Hands grasping, lips crashing together, their clothing was torn from their bodies in a sudden frenzy to be as close to one another as possible. Arthur cried out when he tried to move against Sparrow, however, his ribs too injured to make it comfortable for him to thrust into her as he wanted to. She stilled him with a hand on his chest, making him lie back on a soft pile of dead leaves. She hovered over him, pleasuring him with her hands and her mouth with gentle movements. Pulling her hips to rest above his face, Arthur returned the favor with fervor, aching to stay here, between her legs forever.

But he could not.


	8. Mean It This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another return and another departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to anyone reading this! If you're enjoying this, you might enjoy following me on tumblr. I also draw as well as write. Follow me @finefeatheredgamer

The second time Arthur returned to Sparrow, he returned with noose marks around his neck and a rasp in his throat.

“What are you doing here, Arthur?” she asked, not looking toward him, her voice pained. It was Wednesday; she was painting a small brown bird that Arthur didn’t recognize. Maybe one of them creepers she had mentioned?

“I…” he stopped and cleared his throat, rubbing it carefully where red ligature marks had bruised the soft skin beneath the line of his stubble. “I needed to see you…again,” he answered her, his voice hoarse and rough. She turned toward him finally and her face went white. She had seen him like this once before and it still haunted her dreams. She stood, dropping her brush and rushing to him.

“What happened to you? Are you alright?”

“Oh, I reckon I’m fine. Jest…nearly got got, is all,” he told her, trying to play off the terror he had felt being grabbed from behind, having the life nearly strangled from him for a second time, kicking and nearly shitting himself in his desperate struggle to escape before Charles freed him. Charles could just as easily have split the bounty money with the bastard that had caught Arthur, but he didn’t. Arthur was still thinking on that. He didn’t know if he would have done the same. Sparrow touched the tender line across his throat, and he winced away from her, letting out a small groan.

“‘Nearly’ is an understatement,” Sparrow murmured.

“There’s more,” he rasped out, heart clenching. Sparrow waited. “Mary…she…I…I know it ain’t right, carryin’ on with the both of you, and I haven’t…done anything with her, but, well, when she calls, I come runnin’. She needed my help, so I went. Thought you should know, before anything else…happens.”

“If you weren’t in the habit of helping women in need, I wouldn’t like you half as much as I do, Arthur Morgan. I told you I wasn’t looking for a husband. Is Ms. Linton?” she asked in a neutral tone. Arthur sighed, stepping back and shaking his head in exasperation.

“Naw. Maybe. I don’t know. It don’t matter much, anyhow. She ain’t as…understandin’ as you are about my…proclivities.”

“For crime? Or something else?” Sparrow teased him gently. He glared at her from under his hat, but his eyes were glittering with humor at the comment.

“Crime,” he clarified, but after a beat he smirked and continued. “But hell, that woman wouldn’t put her mouth on a cock even if it were to suck venom out of it,” he chuckled, turning a little red. Sparrow guffawed at that.

“Yes, well, we can’t all be so open-minded, I suppose. Do you love her, Arthur?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” He scowled, but then collected himself, putting a hand softly on Sparrow’s arm. “I know I love you.”

“Don’t,” she said softly, “Not unless…”

“I _do not_ want you in that camp, Sparrow. It ain’t safe, and regardless, I don’t want people knowin’ my business, I don’t want them harassin’ you and questionin’ why you want to be with me. Micah’s already stirred that fire up somethin’ awful,” he sighed, looking suddenly ancient with worry. “Look, I got a cabin for you, just five miles north of here. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to, but I thought it might be better than camping. Fer yer heart, I mean.” Sparrow raised a brow.

“Where’d you get the money for that?” she asked, trying hard to keep her tone neutral and judgment-free, but Arthur’s gaze flickered at her in frustration.

“Please, don’t start,” he begged, taking her hands. “I helped a feller who got snakebit. He owns an old hunting cabin and he weren’t puttin’ it to use anymore. Told me I could use it, so it’s yours for as long as you want it. I was thinking…” His hands wandered from hers, one settling at her neck where his thumb could sit on her pulse, the other cradling her hip with a familiar touch.

“I know _exactly_ what you were thinking, Arthur Morgan,” Sparrow said with a small, humorless laugh. “I’ll need to pack my things here.” Arthur nodded, trying not to look too excited that she was going along with him.

“How’re you gettin’ along with Satan?” he asked as they rode.

“Well, for starters I changed his name. This here’s ‘Pewter,’” she informed him. He looked over at her, and then the horse, who seemed much calmer and happier with her and he was glad. He nodded and smiled.

“That’s a good name,” he conceded. “He’s a good horse, even if he does have poor judgment of character,” Arthur drawled, sounding a little annoyed.

“I’d say he’s quite the good judge of character, Arthur. He only got nasty with you when you were up to no good,” Sparrow suggested smugly. Arthur’s eyes glanced over her appreciatively, a lascivious look crossing his features.

“Well, I’m up to no good now and I don’t see him doin’ nothin’ about it,” he smirked. Sparrow’s eyes glittered.

“Gee up, boy!” she cried, and they were off, thundering across the plain toward a small cabin that could be seen in the distance. Arthur urged Goldie on, but the golden palomino Morgan was nowhere near as fast as the gray-black Thoroughbred.

Arthur and Sparrow hitched their horses and Arthur pushed the door of the cabin open, peeking a head inside to search for danger.

“I’ll getcha a fire started, oughta air out the place,” he suggested, wiping a gloved hand over a trail of dust along one windowsill after setting his hat on the dining table.

Sparrow looked around the tiny cabin. It was all one room with a bed in the corner and a kitchen with a few cabinets in the corner diagonally opposite. The windows were shuttered only, no glass, but it was a nice day, so she opened them all, wiping off various surfaces with a rag she found as a gentle breeze teased through the house, clearing the air of stuffiness and letting the sun shimmer through motes of glistening dust.

“It’ll take some work to make it comfortable, but–”

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, walking up to him. She tugged him down to the bed and he purred with pleasure, unbuttoning her blouse and sucking the soft skin at her neck, fingers trailing down her waist as he rutted against her thigh, his cock hardening in his jeans. She gave an open-mouthed moan as Arthur slipped her pants down, sinking to his knees on the floor and putting his mouth on her slit, his tongue dancing along the tender flesh there before pressing inside. He pushed his face hard between her legs, growling as he buried his face, a hand holding each of her thighs tightly. She slung her legs over his shoulders, her thighs on either side of his head, her calves resting against his back.

Leaning forward, Sparrow ran her fingers through his soft blonde-brown hair, kissing the top of his head as he did his best to suffocate himself while bringing her to orgasm. When she finally tensed beneath his ministrations and clamped her thighs against his ears, she heard him moan softly. She opened her legs and he looked up at her, the tip of his nose and the area all around his mouth glistening with her essence. She pulled him up by the lapels and tugged the front of his pants open. She needed him inside her too urgently to bother taking his pants off completely, but she shoved them down to his ankles. His erection sprung free and she yanked him forward, forcing him to sink into her. He gasped next to her ear, wrapping one arm behind her head and the other under her ass, pressing himself in and out of her with slow rolls of his hips, his buttocks clenching and unclenching beneath where her hands were grasping him, her nails scraping the pale skin there as she moaned his name.

Arthur did not last long. It had been a while, she knew, but he still looked chagrined after he cried out only a few minutes later, sinking inside her and spurting himself within her with a rough growl, swallowing with a click past the damage done to his throat. He pulled away and laid down next to her. Running gentle fingers across the rope burn on his neck, Sparrow smiled.

“You hear that?” she asked. “A whippoorwill. You’ll find them in droves in the area. Singing their dusk song,” she murmured, kissing his jaw. She waited a beat. “Stay,” she asked. He met her eyes, swallowing.

“I cain’t,” he told her, voice regretful, taking one of her hands and kissing the palm. “But I’ll visit more often.”

In the morning, Arthur left her, kissing her sweetly and taking his hat from her.

“Here,” she stopped him, holding out a soft silk bandana dyed robin’s egg blue. “It’ll bring out the blue in your eyes when you’re robbing people,” she half-chided, half-joked. Her own eyes were twinkling with both tears and humor.

“Thank you,” he told her, allowing her to tie it around his neck with an elegant knot he would never be able to recreate. She grabbed him by the end of the bandana and pulled him down for one more kiss.

“Be safe.”

“I can’t promise that, you know that,” he told her softly.

“Then do something else for me,” she whispered, meeting his eyes with earnest feeling in hers.

“Anything.”

“Say it again. Mean it this time.” He drew closer, framing her face with two big hands.

“I love you,” he told her. “I do. I just want you safe.”

“I love you, too, Arthur Morgan. Until I see you again.”

“We’ll see each other again,” he said, frowning a little at the finality in her tone. She nodded, and let go of his hand, which she had been holding so tightly her own ached.

The whippoorwill nearby sang its song, and Sparrow stepped inside the cabin, alone again.


	9. The Sparrow and the Buck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Animal guides and planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to hear the song of the bird they discuss in this chapter, you can find a few here: https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/White-throated_Sparrow/sounds

Each time Arthur came to her, it was as a reminder of death, like the Grim Reaper turning his scythe in the light of the sun so the blade glinted, reminding her “Don’t be too happy. I am still coming for you, and perhaps for him too.”

The third time he came to her, Arthur had been trampled by a team of horses drawing a wagon he had been trying to rob. Sparrow had wordlessly bound his ribs, and his wrist and cleaned his various scrapes and cuts as he moaned in pain and tried his hardest to look tough, too proud to admit that those were tears of pain and fear in his too-blue eyes. He had stayed with her for two months, recuperating. When at last his ribs were healed, he had made hard, rough love to her, biting at the place where neck met shoulder, marking her as he cried out her name, but then leaving in the morning.

The fourth time he returned, he had monstrous gashes down his forearms and a puncture in his side – attacked by wolves in the wilderness while hunting. He had nearly passed out at her door, holding his belly as blood oozed from his arms.

The fifth, burns from a torch lobbed at him by an angry farmer, red and blistered and weeping.

The sixth, a concussion from a barroom brawl, his pupils dilated to two sizes, his words slurred and his movements slow, making awkward, goofy passes at her as she tried to get him to lie down.

The seventh time he returned, Sparrow dropped to her knees, weeping.

“Hey, hey, darlin’,” he said in a soothing tone, running to her and dropping to his knees as well, wrapping big arms around her. “What’s the matter? You a’right, girl?” Sparrow nodded, feeling the tears rolling hotly down her cheek and soak into the soft cotton of his blue shirt. He was unscathed. Perfectly healthy, no bruises, no gashes, no stab wounds or bullet holes. The utter relief at seeing him again, unhurt, was too much. Sparrow’s world dimmed to a soft circle surrounded by blackening at the edge of her vision. She gasped, feeling her heart constrict in her chest. “Stay with me, darlin’,” she heard Arthur’s voice. “Stay with me.”

Arthur carried her to the cabin, laying her gently on the bed. Fidgeting, he found a cloth, dipped it into her water pail and brought it to her, pulling a chair up and gently dabbing the sweat from her face.

“You’re alright,” he murmured, taking one of her hands. She was mostly asleep, or unconscious, breathing hard, her face pale and her fingertips blue.

“Arthur,” she whispered, eyes flickering shut, “don’t go. Don’t leave me. Stay.”

“I’m here,” he assured her, crawling into the bed beside her and pulling her close to comfort her. “I’m right here.”

\------

When Sparrow awoke in the morning, Arthur found her aloof, quiet. She was embarrassed. The sight of him had been too much for her weak heart. His injuries might as well have been her own, for as much as they hurt her. To see him in one piece brought relief, yes, but also dread. What injury would happen next? What foul deed would Arthur’s lifestyle inevitably commit against them both?

Arthur cooked them a meagre breakfast of salted pork and bread. They were mostly silent, him watching her, brows furrowed in concern. He didn’t really understand what had happened to her, but he was worried.

“I’m sorry,” Sparrow said as she washed up, “about last night. Begging you to stay, though I promised us both I’d stop asking that long ago.” Her cheeks were blazing red. Arthur frowned.

“Far as I kin tell you don’t got nothin’ to apologize for,” he replied in his gravelly tone. “You okay?” Sparrow’s lips twisted in chagrin.

“My heart. When I saw you there…all in one piece…” she let out a self-deprecating laugh. “You’ve made me go soft, Arthur Morgan,” she admitted, coming close. He reached a hand out and grabbed hers, pulling her closer.

“You’re preachin’ to the choir, pastor,” he told her softly, kissing her hand.

“So. Do I want to know what mischief you’ve been up to that’s brought you here to hide?”

“Didn’t come to hide,” he started, a bit defensively, “come here to check on you. But…well. Dutch has got another one of his plans and there’s no tellin’ how that will go. Badly’d be my guess,” Arthur answered himself, his tone mildly resentful.

“Do you have to go back to him? To them?”

Arthur didn’t look at her. His shoulders slumped.

“You know I do. He’s my family. I owe him. I gotta give him what I can for what he’s done for me. And I can’t leave the rest of them neither. It’s…” Arthur paused for a long moment. “Loyalty’s important,” he finished, but he only sounded half-convinced now. Sparrow didn’t know what was going on with the gang, and, truthfully, she didn’t want to. Sighing, Sparrow massaged Arthur’s shoulders for a moment, feeling the tension there.

“Be careful you don’t give Dutch too much,” she murmured in his ear, knowing his complicated history with the older man. Arthur nodded, looking at her askance, smiling and forcing the seriousness of the conversation away.

“So. What birds are you after now?”

“Well, winter is still a ways off, but a few things are migrating. Saw several Sandhill Cranes up by the lake. Would you like to go with me? They’re quite beautiful.”

“It’s Wednesday, ain’t it?” he asked. She smiled.

“Yes. But I’ve already painted all my outlines from last week.” Arthur looked deeply sheepish, scratching at the back of his neck and generally acting squirrelly. She loved when he acted like this, like a young boy who didn’t know full well what he was doing. When he was shy after months of separation, like it was the first time again. She sauntered toward him from the kitchen area, a smirk on her face. “I could pack us a picnic…and a thick blanket. A real soft one…for layin’ on…” He blushed, but she saw the interest on his features. Smiling up at her, Arthur cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak.

“I reckon I’d enjoy a…picnic.”

“Good,” she purred. “Help me pack.”

\--------

They rode side by side toward the lake, their hands held together as Pewter and Goldie kept pace with one another. Arthur’s thumb drug back and forth across the inside of her palm and when she looked at him, his face was a study in adoration and torn loyalty. She smiled back and squeezed his hand, pulling Pewter away to indicate where they should stop.

After laying the heavy quilt down, they laid on their stomachs, taking turns looking at the cranes through their binoculars. The lake was a small one, especially in comparison to others nearby in the region, but it was flourishing with life. Frogs sang along its banks. There were dewberry vines growing thick up the steep rocky sides at one end, and reeds on the sandy shore of the other. Sandhill Cranes meandered through the water, spearing the occasional toad or snake. A few called with their eerie, primordial-sounding voices, wings flapping and long legs carrying them gracefully around the water’s edge.

Oak trees surrounded the area, with occasional mesquite and cedar trees interspersed. Rainbow Buntings and Mountain Bluebirds flickered like bright jewels through the branches, occasionally landing next to the water for a drink. Tree Swallows twittered and dove toward the surface of the lake, scooping up mouthfuls of water. The sun, high overhead, was shielded by clouds, leading to a bright, but cooler day. A warm breeze lapped at the water, carrying with it the scent of flowers and herbs.

Arthur sighed contentedly and pulled Sparrow close to him after a moment. She turned and looked at him. He looked thinner than the last time she had seen him, and a bit pale, but, then again, so did she. He ran a hand over her hip, the other cradling her chin.

“Mighta confused you for a ghost seein’ you out here in the sun. You doin’ alright?” She smiled.

“I do okay, Arthur. I have…pains in my chest here and there, but, nothing serious. Not so far. But…when the time comes…”

“No,” he said firmly, pulling away from her stubbornly. She grabbed his arm with urgency on her face, her brows furrowed.

“Arthur, it’s important to me. I…I didn’t expect I’d come to care for you so much. I certainly didn’t expect to love you, but I do, and it’s done and there’s nothin’ much can be done for it. So, I need you to do some things for me. When the time comes…” Arthur furiously looked away from her, cocking his jaw. When she pulled his head to face her, his expression was dark, broody. He wasn’t the type to cry easily, but when next he spoke his voice was rough.

“I’ll do what needs doin’,” he promised. She nodded.

“Good. I’ll leave directions for getting my things to Albert at the post office in Saint Denis. I’ve got quite a lot of money saved up. I won’t need it anymore. You do with it as you please, but please don’t rob the bank. I happen to like the tellers.”

“If Dutch asks me to…”

“Oh, good Lord, Arthur, it was meant as a joke,” she snapped, a bit techy about discussing all this. He looked cowed and indicated she should proceed.

“If you come back and happen…” She swallowed hard, “happen to find my body, just bury me in a sack. No need for pine boxes or any of that nonsense. We’re all just fertilizer, in the end, no reason to draw out the process.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand. “Pine box or no, Arthur, all we are when we’re dead is meat. No sense in trying to preserve it,” she shrugged.

“Well. I guess I can’t argue that,” he drawled, looking distressed. She put a hand on his upper arm.

“I’m sorry to be drawing you into this. I honestly thought I’d just go off and die in the wilderness, like an old dog, but then you had to come along and be…you,” Sparrow finished with a sigh. Arthur smiled begrudgingly at that. “You can have Pewter back, of course,” she continued, but Arthur stopped her by smashing his lips abruptly into hers.

“Hush, darlin’,” he whispered, laying her down on her back. “We don’t need to talk about this. I’ll take care of things, I promise. But enough. Let’s just…enjoy the day.” He slipped her pants and underwear from her hips, tenderly kissing the insides of her thighs.

Arthur moved slowly, gently, making every kiss deep and lasting. He held her close to him, as though he could protect her from the world, moving her against him with determined urgency. She cried out his name softly, trying not to scare the birds around them, but nature paid them no mind. They were part of it, as natural as the sunrise at dawn, or the sun setting at dusk. When they finished sighing “I love you” into one another’s ears, they both lay, panting, curled together as the gentle breeze whispered over their exposed flesh.

“So,” Arthur began as he pulled out a cigarette from his satchel, lit it and took a drag, “Why’d you paint me a White-necked Sparrow specifically? Been meanin’ to ask you.” Sparrow took the cigarette from his lips and took a puff herself, wincing at the burn of smoke in her throat.

“Throated,” she corrected him, “White-throated Sparrow.”

“Hmm,” he responded, still waiting for her answer.

“I guess because I’ve always associated myself with them. My name, of course, but then the way they behave, their song. They thrive in areas that were destroyed and are being restored, where logging or fires have happened. Spring, fall, summer, winter, it doesn’t matter to them. Adversity doesn’t destroy them, they just adjust. They make it work, wherever they find themselves. I’d like to think I do my best to be in the world and to bring a bit of color to it, like them.”

“Their song,” Arthur asked, “what’s it sound like?”

“You’ll have heard it, I’m sure,” Sparrow answered. She whistled a startlingly good rendition of a song that, yes, Arthur had heard before. “I guess you could say they’re what I would be if I were an animal. Like, they're somehow connected to my soul, or my essence, if you believe in such a thing.” There was quiet for a moment as the afternoon sun burned its way through the clouds, the rays warming their skin. “How about you? What do you think you'd be?” Arthur shrugged.

“Don’t rightly know,” he admitted. “Guess I never really thought about it.”

“Hmm,” Sparrow hummed. “A stag, I think. A big white-tailed deer, stately and tall. You’re gentle, vulnerable and compassionate, but protective and strong when you need to be, dangerous, even. You face problems as they arise, quickly and with no indecision.” Arthur chuckled, cheeks going red with the odd compliment.

“Well, I guess the buck does make a lot of sense for me,” he drawled, a mischievous look crossing his face. “‘Cause they’re dumb as a box of rocks, just like me.”

“Don’t,” Sparrow laughed. “Don’t do that. Anyway, you’re smarter than you look,” she teased, and he tickled her at that until she squealed. In the distance, a White-throated Sparrow sang and Arthur shushed her for a moment, listening to its clear voice.

“When I hear one of them, I’ll think of you. Always,” he promised her, kissing her lightly on the top of the head. She cuddled more deeply into his chest.

“Good. Even when I’m…not here anymore, I’ll always be with you,” she whispered. Arthur chuffed and pulled her closer, as though trying to make her a part of him.

“Enough of that. You’re here now.”


	10. Rule Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow and Charles break a rule.

When Arthur did not visit, or write for nearly two months, Sparrow knew something was wrong. She thought about looking for him, or news of him. If he had gotten himself shot down, she wanted to know. Not a day before she had decided to pack her things and search him out, a tall, thickly built man with chocolatey brown skin and long, jet-black hair knocked on her door.

“Yes, sir?” she asked flatly, keeping her pistol in her hand behind the cracked door. The man surveyed her for a moment. He carried himself with the air of someone out of his time, or perhaps even out of his own universe, like some mystic being somehow shoved into the body of a mortal. He was tall, and broad, and very intimidating, but his brown eyes were kind.

“Arthur sent me. I’m Charles.” Sparrow’s eyebrows rose, and she felt her heart flutter and a lump formed in her throat. She knew of him. She also knew that him being here could not mean good news. She opened the door further.

“Is he dead?” she questioned, her voice thick as molasses over her tongue. Charles sighed and stepped in when she gestured for him to do so. She turned away from him to pour them both some coffee.

“No. Not quite, anyway. It was bad business. I’m guessing he’s told you about the O’Driscolls?”

“Some,” she hedged. They didn’t talk much about Arthur’s work. When he came to her, it was to escape all that.

“Well, the bastards took him. Ambushed him. Tried to use him as bait to get us all arrested…hanged.” Charles’ voice was bitter, but it remained the same soft volume. He was, above all else, calm, like an oak tree standing tall and unbroken against the onslaught of a storm. Sparrow liked him instantly, the circumstances aside. She handed him a mug of coffee, which he took with a nod of thanks, sipping it. “They shot him, twice. Once in the shoulder. It’s bad. They starved him. Beat him. Wouldn’t surprise me if they did more,” he sighed, “but he’s not talking to me about it. Wanted me to check on you. He still can’t ride a horse. Told me to let you know he’d be coming. Asked me to bring you this,” he finished. In Charles’ hand there was a piece of paper, which Sparrow took. “Do you need anything?” Charles asked, voice soft. It was obvious from his tone that though he didn’t know Sparrow, he cared about her simply because Arthur did.

“I need a lot of things, Charles,” Sparrow answered with chagrin. “Nothing you can bring me, though.”

“I understand. I’ll stay in the area for a few days. Bring you some food and other supplies. If you have anything for him when I go back…”

“No,” she cut him off. “Enough people know about us as it is. I don’t want to get him in any trouble with anyone. He does enough of that himself.” Charles laughed at that, but the sound was humorless.

“Yes, I suppose he does. I’ll leave you be, then.”

“Don’t go yet, Charles. You’ve had a hard ride. At least nap and finish your coffee before you go back out. If you’ll excuse me?” she indicated the letter in her hand and Charles nodded for her to do her own thing, sitting cross-legged on the floor and leaning back to relax, still sipping at his cup of coffee.

Sparrow, meanwhile, unfolded the letter Charles had brought, careful not to tear or further bend the off-white paper. Once she had it unfolded, she found it filled with Arthur’s neat cursive.

_“My dear Miss Sparrow,_

_I do not know if I shall see you again. In the case that I do not, which will not surprise me given my string of rotten luck, I want you to know that I have given Charles the details which you shared when we last was together. He will take care of things if I can’t. _

_There are a bunch of things I would like to write here, but chief among them is that you are an excellent woman, and I am glad to have known you for the short time that I have. I hope this letter finds you well, and I hope this old buck will see his sparrow again SOON. _

_ With all that I am,_

_ Arthur.”_

Beneath the text was a sketch of a large whitetail buck with one front leg held up in a mid-stride pose. The deer’s big brown eyes were drawn shiny and alert, his antlers dark and many-pointed, and his elegant tail uplifted. Perched on one of the antler points was a small, colorful bird, quite clearly intended to be a White-throated Sparrow. It was a lovely drawing, done all in colored pencil and carefully shaded. Sparrow held the paper to her lips for a moment, her eyes watering with tears that she tried to force away.

“Thank you. For bringing me this,” she whispered, just loudly enough that Charles could hear. She looked at him, eyes glittering with tears. “For bringing news of him. Charles…will he be okay?”

“From this? He should be. Beyond that? I don’t know. I’m starting to think none of us will ever be okay again,” he admitted. She gave him a sad smile.

“You and him are two books printed on the same paper,” she commented, voice trembling with emotion. “Old heroes born to the wrong time of this bitter world.” Sparrow pushed all the air out of her lungs in a loud, sorrowful expulsion, pulling a copy of _Idylls of the King_ from the small bookshelf she had built with scrap wood and flipping through it for a moment, fingers gentle on the pages. Looking up, Sparrow met her new acquaintance’s gaze. “Charles…would you like some whiskey in that coffee of yours?” He smirked and held out his mug.

“What could it hurt?”

\---------------

Three days and several bottles of whiskey in, the two of them had become fast friends. Sparrow liked him a great deal and she could see why Arthur had trusted Charles with the task of checking on her. They had much in common, shared over whiskey and sloppily prepared meals. They both loved nature, both mourned the destruction of the natural world, and, perhaps most importantly, they both loved Arthur. He was the topic of many of their conversations, and it wasn’t long before Sparrow’s eyes were glittering wickedly.

“Ch-Charles,” she slurred on the third night, just as whip-poor-wills began to sing, “I…I have arrived at a shingularly – a great – a really good plan.”

“Ugh, I’ve had enough of _puh-laaaans_,” he drawled mockingly “this plan, that plan, that plan, that plan. Hmm.” He looked at her, squinting one eye shut drunkenly. “Whatcher plan?” he finally conceded.

“We sneak me into the camp, so that I can say ‘howdy.’ Make ‘im feel better.” Charles gave her a look of such intensity, she thought for a moment that he had sobered up and was about to snap at her. Instead, he leapt to his feet and slung her over his shoulder. She squealed and laughed, her world spinning.

“Let’s go, then,” he said. They wobbled unsteadily toward the hitching post, where he attempted to sling her over the back of his horse. It snorted in irritation when Charles dropped Sparrow, guffawing. Sparrow fell to the ground with a muffled “oomph” and started giggling. Charles tried again, this time with slightly more success, but Sparrow still fell off. Thoroughly put out now, Charles’ horse Taima nickered, laying pointed ears back in annoyance. This time, Charles clambered up, muttering affectionate nothings to his horse as he tugged Sparrow up behind him. She held onto his sides, blinking as the world spun again. “Let’s go home,” Charles ordered, and Taima took off with a kick of back feet, snorting again.

When they arrived, Charles had the good sense to skirt the perimeter of the camp, bringing Sparrow around to Arthur’s tent from the lake side of the camp. He shushed her loudly and rolled down the sides of a sleeping Arthur’s tent before stumbling outside with a slurred,

“I’ll keep watch.”

Sparrow nodded hazily in response to Charles’ loudly whispered announcement and hunkered down at Arthur’s side. His facial hair had grown long and bushy, and his skin was pale in the soft moonlight streaking into the crease of one of his big tent’s sides. He was wearing nothing but his soft red underwear, his right hand folded over his belly in sleep, fingers relaxed. His left arm was in a sling, the broad hand and strong fingers spread over his chest. His nails were filthy, a black line of dirt and grit under each one. He was thinner than the last time he had seen him, and his hair was sweaty, haphazard. He smelled like smoke, acrid medicine, cigarette smoke and mint oil. Unable to resist touching him, Sparrow took his right hand gently. Arthur jumped awake, making a little sound of distress and fear. His eyes were wide and panicked. He softened when he realized it was her, but it disturbed her to see him frightened.

“Miss Sparrow,” he whispered, frowning. “What on earth are you doin’ here? I don’t want you gettin’ caught in the camp, come on now!”

“Charles brought me to cheer you up,” she told him in something more closely resembling a stage whisper than an actually quiet voice. He clamped a hand over her mouth, and she licked his palm. Wrinkling his nose and wiping his spit-moistened hand down his side in disgust, Arthur huffed.

“Are you drunk?”

“It’s quite possible,” she admitted with a smirk. It looked like he wanted to be angry, but instead he smiled.

“Well. You’re here. Might as well make the most of it. Come here, darlin’,” he purred, pulling her up onto to cot, which creaked, but did not collapse under their weight. They lay quietly, Sparrow listening to the beating of his heart in his chest, him running his fingers through her hair with his right hand. Arthur moaned softly when her hand brushed his left shoulder.

“Let me see it,” she whispered, sobering a bit, the world rocking now, more than spinning. With careful motions, she unbuttoned and pulled the shoulder portion of his underwear down, exposing a wound that looked like some combination of bullet hole and burn. It had been stuffed with some sort of poultice. She sniffed. “Onion and garlic. A bit of mint. Good. That’ll help with infection. Oughta add some honey to seal it, though.” Arthur chuckled.

“Sounds more like you wanna roast me than cure me.” He winced, sitting up a bit. “Cain’t say I agree with you comin’ here, but I’m glad you did, darlin’.” He cupped her face with his right hand. “You shouldn’t stay long.”

“I know, but I had to see you.” She stroked his hair, feeling grease and grit beneath her nails, but she found she didn’t care. She loved this dirty, rowdy outlaw. His face was creased with worry and exhaustion. “Go back to sleep, Arthur. I’ll sneak out when the birds start singing in the morning. Are you okay?” His blue eyes met her green ones.

“I will be. I’m better, now that you’re here.”

\----------------

A cacophony of morning birdsong awoke Sparrow. She yawned and climbed off the cot. Again, Arthur woke, startled. Something bad had happened to him, aside from just being shot. She took his hand again, kissing him gently on the forehead.

“Take care of yourself, my dear, sweet Arthur. I have to go.” He sat up and coughed, clearing his throat.

“Guess it’s nice not being the one who leaves for once,” he got out, coughing roughly again. Sparrow frowned.

“Be well, Arthur. And don’t go pulling any swords out of stones.”

“Huh?” he asked. She chuckled.

“Nothing.” Nearby, a White-throated Sparrow sang its morning song. “See there? I’m not really leaving,” she teased, kissing him on the cheek. “I love you.” With that, Sparrow tugged her hand away from his and darted out of the back of the tent, nudging Charles in the ribs with her toes. He stirred with a groan, seemed to realize where he was and where she was, and that it was beginning to be daylight, and he stood like a shot before reaching painfully for his head.

“Ugh,” he confirmed, “my head.”

“Come on. We gotta go.”


	11. Nobody's Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow gives Arthur back his power after he heals from being caught and tortured by the O'Driscoll gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Elements of BDSM in this one, but nothing too extreme.

When Arthur trotted up on his horse, the very first thing he noticed was the way Charles was looking at Sparrow, the way you might look at someone who hung the stars in the sky. The skin around Charles’ brown eyes was crinkled with laughter, his white teeth shining in the midafternoon sun. Sparrow’s hand lingered on Charles’ forearm as she laughed as well. Any jealousy Arthur might have felt, however, was alleviated the instant both their eyes turned to him. The expression on Charles’ face remained the same, and it suddenly felt as though Arthur had swallowed a hot penny, warmth spreading in his gut with affection for his friend. He spared them a small smile, tipping his gambler’s hat in a tongue-in-cheek motion at Charles.

“Why, aren’t you looking better?” Sparrow commented, standing and approaching Arthur and his horse Goldie. “You’ve put on some weight.”

“Thanks,” he answered dryly. She laughed, putting a hand on his thick thigh where it rested against the skirt of his saddle.

“That’s a good thing, Arthur. You were looking thin. You look good. That beard is…”

“Driving me to madness,” he finished her sentence for her, scratching at the offending bird’s nest that had grown from his face.

“You look good, Arthur,” Charles murmured, taking a sip of his coffee. Sparrow looked between the two of them, seeing Arthur scratch the back of his head sheepishly at the compliment. She had to guess Charles’ skin was burning scarlet beneath his stoic reserve. Who could blame him? Arthur was a very likeable…loveable man. “Well, I should get back,” the big man told them. He drained his mug and set it down on the porch. “Arthur.”

“Charles,” Arthur responded as his friend unhitched his horse and climbed up.

“I’ll cover for you with Dutch,” Charles told him. “Take care of yourself. And try not to get shot again.”

“I ain’t makin’ any promises,” Arthur laughed.

\--------------------------

Arthur followed Sparrow into the cabin, pressing soft kisses to her hand. She noticed how the color had returned to his cheeks, and how he had put back on some weight, heavy muscles now coated with a healthy layer of soft fat, especially around his belly and thighs. She looked appreciatively at the way his legs and ass filled his blue jeans.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him.

“Starvin’,” he responded, pushing her toward the bed. She laughed, but he shoved her down insistently, going to his knees and tugging her pants down. He buried his face between her thighs until she scratched her fingernails roughly down his back.

Pressing his straining erection against her thigh, Arthur rutted against her with little open-mouthed grunts.

“Come here,” she murmured, unbuckling his belt and shoving his pants down roughly. Arthur crouched above her, his cock weeping precum against his hairy belly. He paused for a moment, kissing her cheek.

“How’s your heart?” he asked, stroking her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“Well enough,” she promised him. “I’m more worried about you. Taken prisoner. Shot. Tortured.” Arthur looked away, rolling off her and sitting up on the edge of the bed, his erection flagging. “Charles has been telling me about how you seemed to be having flashbacks in your sleep, bad dreams. Of being beaten. Hurt. He told me you’ve been acting…off. Bothered.” Sparrow stood and pulled a riding crop out of a bin by the door and returned to the bedside. Arthur’s eyebrow rose. “I thought maybe I could give you something else to think about,” she whispered in his ear, popping the crop lightly across his thighs.

“I, uh,” his mouth flopped open and closed like a fish out of water.

“If you want me to stop, say ‘stop,’” she murmured. She pulled his clothes off, leaving just his bandana around his neck. She rolled and tightened it to something resembling a collar, sliding her index finger into it and tugging him forward gently so that his cheek rested against her stomach where she stood next to the bed. He wrapped big arms around her, nuzzling into her.

“Lord have mercy, woman,” Arthur breathed. “Where do you get these damn ideas of yours?” he asked, amused. She grinned.

“Field work leaves one with a lot of time to think. Lay down with your arms above your head.”

“Why?” Her riding crop flicked out and popped him on the cheek, making him grunt in surprise.

“Because I said so,” she grinned at him. He smirked and obeyed. Fingers working quickly, Sparrow used a silk scarf to bind his hands above his head and to the top of the bedframe, slapping him on the chest with the crop when he fidgeted as she worked it into a carefully designed knot.

“You finally takin’ me in for that bounty, miss?” he asked with a winning grin. She crawled atop him, plopping his hat on his head, his longish hair framing his face handsomely.

“No, you’re worth far more to me alive than dead, you silly man,” she told him, kissing him. He arched his hips up, straining to reach her wet slit with his cock, but she stayed just out of reach and flicked him on the thigh with the crop, eliciting a huffed moan.

“Goddammit, woman, I gotta–” Sparrow flicked him with it again, leaving a little red welt and this time she saw the anger in Arthur’s eyes. “Don’t you hit me again,” he hissed, straining against the bonds. Good. That was what she wanted, and what he needed. He jammed his hips upward, asscheeks clenching, legs straining to reach what he wanted. She smacked him again with the crop, a loud _POP_ filling the cabin. Arthur roared at the sting and jerked upwards. “Goddammit!” he yelled, panting.

“If you want me to stop, say ‘stop,’” Sparrow reminded him, her voice firm, but gentle. His eyes were glittering with anger and some other emotion that scared her a little.

“Please,” he begged, hips bucking madly, “let me take ye.”

“No,” she told him flatly, slapping the crop against his cheek and keeping her hips just out of his reach, hovering enticingly above him. His eyes burned with fury, meeting hers. She saw doubt glittering there, and heard his breathing increase, the breaths going shallow. “Arthur, listen to me. If you want me to stop, say ‘stop.’”

“I don’t want you to stop,” he growled, “I want you to let me have my way, you damn fool woman.” She slapped him on the belly with the crop, leaving a red welt.

“Then take it,” she told him, lifting his chin with the end of the crop as he glared at her. “Take back your power. There is nothing stopping you. You aren’t anyone’s prisoner anymore, Arthur.”

His features softened, his anger fading, replaced with a look of confidence, and deep desire. She flicked the crop out again and popped him on the chest, grabbing his chin by his thick beard. He growled deep in his throat.

“It was all a trap,” he murmured quietly. “I was gonna be bait. Colm was gonna treat me like fuckin’ bait. I fell right in his trap…”

“And you escaped it. And you’re here, alive,” Sparrow murmured. “Nobody can take that from you. You’re strong, Arthur. Take what you want,” she whispered in his ear, kissing the place where she could feel his pulse rushing, right at the edge of his beard. He huffed and sat up, tearing his hands out of the knot, which fell apart, just as Sparrow had planned. He winced slightly when he moved his left shoulder, but it only slowed him a little.

In an instant, Arthur had flipped Sparrow onto her stomach on the bed and had rammed himself inside her with a groan, his hands clamped on each of her wrists, holding her in place.

“That’s right,” she encouraged as his big body covered hers, pressing her into the mattress with hard, greedy thrusts of his hips. He snatched the riding crop out of her clenched fist and snapped it, tossing it across the room.

“I ain’t nobody’s prisoner,” he ground out.

“You’re free,” she agreed with him, letting him ride out the emotions of being caught and tortured, letting him bury himself deep inside her and assure himself that he was still a man, still in control of himself. He let out a shuddering breath and his movements into her slowed.

“I love you,” he told her, voice a bit shaky.

“I love you, too. I missed you while you were gone.” He flipped her so she was facing him and sank into her softly now, drawing her to him, grinding his hips in a circular motion that rubbed against a point of agonizing pleasure deep inside her as he pressed his tongue between her lips, exploring her mouth with prods of his tongue, moaning when she sucked on it and bit his lower lip.

“Even there, in the midst of all that nastiness,” he whispered, pulling his face back so he could meet her gaze, “I heard you singin’ your dusk song. When I ran in nothin’ but my unmentionables, when I climbed up on my horse, I heard your song, and I knew I’d be alright,” he told her.

White-throated Sparrows were a common enough bird that Sparrow wasn’t really surprised one had been singing when Arthur was taken. Still, the point remained.

“I told you,” she agreed, butting her forehead against his, “even when I’m gone…I’ll still be with you.”


	12. A Night on the Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur courts Sparrow, but complications arise.

Sparrow was always cautious, but optimistic, whenever someone knocked on the door to her cabin in the middle of the woods. A soft knock preceded her slowly, carefully creaking the heavy wooden door open, peaking out with her gun in her hidden hand. It was Charles.

“Oh, please no,” she whispered, remembering the last time he had come unannounced.

“It’s alright,” he assured her, “Arthur’s fine. But, he has a request.” Sparrow frowned when Charles told her the details, but, eager to see Arthur, she packed a bag and followed the big man to a wagon he had driven out. “It’ll take us a couple of hours to get there if you’d like to nap in the back,” he offered, but she declined, preferring instead to use her binoculars to bird on the way, and taking the rare opportunity to chat with Charles. He was not usually the talkative type, but, having found a kindred spirit in Sparrow, she and he talked heatedly about how mankind was treating the natural world. Venom filled his tone particularly when he brought up the treatment of bison. Sparrow’s heart ached.

“Yes, it’s much the same for herons and egrets, destroyed for their plumage and nothing more. Or worse yet the passenger pigeons and Carolina parakeets. I see fewer and fewer of them each time I have done field work over the years. It’s almost as though the world is done with all the wild, free things. Almost as though the world would rather wash everything black and white with the paints of industry and ‘progress.’ You and Arthur, men like you…I wouldn’t say I agree entirely with everything you do, but…you do bring a certain wildness to the world. I fear it will soon be lost.”

“Hmm. For good or ill?” Charles mused. Sparrow sighed and they were quiet for a long moment. 

“How has he been?”

“Alright,” Charles fielded, but she could tell from his expression something was bothering him. “Arthur…he’s struggling with some of the things Dutch is asking of us. We all had faith in Dutch, but…it seems like nothing is going right recently. It has him worried.” Charles looked at her askance. “I think it’s why he wanted to do this.”

“And just what is ‘this,’ exactly?” Sparrow asked, wrinkling her nose. Charles huffed a soft laugh.

“You’ll find out soon enough. I’m not answering to Arthur after spoiling a surprise.”

“Have it your way then,” Sparrow groused, picking up her binoculars to watch a California Condor moving in lazy circles overhead. They were quiet most of the rest of the trip. Ahead loomed the town of Edom, a quaint, tucked away town in the pine and oak woods of New Hanover. Helping Sparrow step down from the wagon, Charles pointed toward the hotel. 

“He’ll be inside,” he said, but Arthur was already stepping out the door of the hotel. Sparrow gasped and smiled.

Her rough, rugged outlaw looked nothing the part at the moment. His hair had been carefully trimmed and he had used pomade to tame the golden-brown strands into something presentable. He was clean-shaven, and freshly bathed, the usual dusty coating of trail dirt scrubbed away until his skin was a little red from the tending. He was wearing a particularly sharp-looking set of clothes – a crisp white linen shirt, a ruby red vest, ebony-black western hat and matching pants and suit jacket, finished off with a pair of dark black boots that had been polished to such a thorough shine Sparrow was fairly certain she could have seen her reflection in them.

“Why Mr. Morgan, don’t you look nice,” she cooed, smiling and stepping up onto the porch. He held an arm genteelly out for her to weave her own into.

“Miss Callaghan,” he greeted, blue-green eyes twinkling.

“What on earth is all this about?” she asked, putting her free hand on his forearm and tipping her cheek so it bumped his shoulder. He smirked.

“You don’t know?” he drawled.

“I guess not,” she laughed.

“It’s been a year,” he told her. “Twelve months since I came down to this area and ran into you in the wilderness. Figured…figured we oughta celebrate, seein’ as how you can still manage to tolerate my sorry ass.” Sparrow chuckled. A year? It hardly felt real.

“Arthur Morgan, it turns out you _are _a gentleman,” she teased. He reddened in the cheeks, looking self-conscious.

“Puttin’ an ugly feller in a suit don’t make him a gentleman,” he reminded her. Sparrow scoffed, slapping him lightly on the arm.

“Nonsense. You should get your eyes checked if you think you’re ugly. So, are we having lunch?” she asked as they stepped into the hotel lobby, which opened to an opulent dining area complete with a bar, which was built of solid cherry wood. Glistening bottles reflected the light of the midday sun shining in the windows, casting flickering jetties of light around the room.

“Well,” Arthur started again, scratching the back of his head until he remembered he was mussing his coiffed hair and snatched his hand away, “I actually was thinkin’ we could have a picnic and then come back here,” he told her. She smiled.

“I’d like that.”

“Good. There’s a nice spot just outside town under a big oak tree,” he told her. “Feel like walkin’?”

“Certainly,” she told him. He lead her there, arm-in-arm, going slow so they could enjoy the sunny afternoon. She was surprised to discover he had already prepared the area beneath the oak tree for a picnic, complete with basket, quilt and, oddly, a handsome Hispanic man who was plucking quiet notes from the strings of his Spanish guitar.

“Thank’ye, Javier,” Arthur said, tipping his hat to his friend.

“You still owe me that fishing lure, my friend,” Javier jibbed, but he looked friendly, and curious, surveying Sparrow with keen eyes. “So this is the woman we’ve heard so little about, eh?”

“Just strum your guitar, Javier,” Arthur griped, rolling his eyes. Sparrow chuckled.

“Sparrow Callaghan,” she greeted.

“Javier Escuella,” he told her, tipping his bowler hat with a flourish. 

“Very nice to meet you.”

“_ Any _way,” Arthur interrupted loudly, and Javier took the hint and began to play for them. All his attention now focused on Sparrow, Arthur took her hand where they sat on the quilt, his body and expression relaxing for what felt like the first time in months. Reaching for the basket, he pulled out a green bottle of dark red liquid. “Dutch likes this wine, said it had 'tannings' or somethin’. Ain’t quite sure what in the hell that means, but apparently it means it’s good. Regardless, it’s expensive.” Sparrow snorted.

“I can’t imagine that stopped you from lifting it,” she laughed. The wrinkles around his eyes twinkled when he gave her a look of amusement.

“Right out of Dutch’s wine collection, yes ma’am,” he said around a mouthful of cigar, which he was lighting with a match he’d struck on the side of the oak tree. Sparrow laughed and patiently waited for him to open the wine bottle after he got his cigar lit. He did, pouring them each an enamel coffee mug full of wine and then offering her a tray of cheese and apple slices that he had clumsily cut with his hunting knife. He took a sip of the wine and Sparrow cackled at the disgusted, sour-puss expression that slid over his features when he tasted the bitter tannins. He swallowed despite his disgust and Sparrow, deeply amused took a sip of her own with a barely concealed grimace.

“This is nice,” she said, but the scent of the nearby livery reached her nose at precisely the wrong moment as she took a bite of cheese, making her a little nauseated. Overhead, an angry squirrel began to lob acorns at them, chittering each time Arthur opened his mouth to speak. Furious, Arthur pulled his sidearm, but Sparrow stopped him, almost snorting wine up her nose amidst her laughter. Javier began to sing a rousing song, presumably to drown out the squirrel, but it made conversation challenging. A strong gust of wind blew half the quilt up and over their legs and Arthur cursed, trying to spread it out again, only to have his hat blown from his head. Meanwhile, their rodential enemy tossed yet another acorn, popping Arthur in the temple. “Goddammit!” he exploded, calming himself after a moment and sighing. “Sorry, was just tryna do somethin’ special.” He took another sip of the wine and grimaced.

Sparrow put her hand on his arm, deep affection coursing through her.

“Arthur, I greatly appreciate what you’re trying to do…er, doing, but you don’t have to try to impress me. You never have.” He turned cherry red and scratched at his chin. “I don’t need all this music, or wine, or you dressed in a suit to want to be with you. I’ll tell you what, let’s pack up here and go back to the hotel. I’ll buy you a beer, cowboy.”

“But the wine…” he protested, one side of his lip rising in a scowl that he could no longer hide.

“The wine tastes terrible, Arthur. I doubt very much that your Mr. Van der Linde has bothered to keep it a steady temperature. The apples were good, but I don’t know that cheese is supposed to be that color. And Mr. Escuella’s…”

“Caterwauling?” Arthur suggested helpfully with a nasty look at Javier, who frowned defensively, pausing in his singing, which had softened only slightly as they spoke.

“_ Cabrón _, I was tryin’ to sing over your stupid voice,” he retorted, insulted. Sparrow held an apologetic hand out to him.

“At any rate, let’s go get a beer, Arthur. You and I don’t need to be fancy to be happy. That’s not who we are.” 

“Alright,” he said hesitantly, still looking disappointed. They stepped into the hotel and Arthur first took them up to the room he had reserved, looking sheepish. “I, er, I got somethin’ for ya. I know ya said we didn’t need to be fancy, but…well,” he paused with a small frustrated huff that was extremely endearing. He looked at her, brows pulled forward with concern and embarrassment. “Don’t know if you’ll want it, I’ve never seen ya in a dress, but I didn’t know what else to get ya.” Arthur pulled a box out from the footlocker and handed it to Sparrow, who opened it. Inside was a lovely red and black dress, printed with the same paisley as Arthur’s vest. “Thought maybe we could go dancin’ later tonight,” he suggested, cheeks going a deeper shade of red than the terrible wine they had abandoned. She kissed him on the cheek.

“Of course. Tell you what, you open a tab downstairs, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Arthur smiled, rubbing his thumb on her chin in a familiar, affectionate gesture.

“I do love you,” he murmured in his gravelly voice.

“I love you too,” she responded, taking his hand. “Now go. Have a beer or three. I’ll be down soon.” Sparrow took a bath, carefully cleaning all the grim and sweat from her body before she put on the beautiful dress Arthur had bought…or possibly stole, for her. From the looks of its fit and cut, he had been paying attention to her measurements, and if she had to guess, he had probably had help of the female variety picking it out. She managed to get the thing on and began to trudge downstairs, unused to being laced up and corseted. She was still wearing her field boots, but their black leather matched the dress well enough and the skirts covered everything but her toes anyway. She had also used the skirts to hide a small belt that housed her revolver and a few cartridges. These days one could never be too careful. Arthur looked up from the bar with his beer glass halfway to his mouth, which dropped open when he saw her.

“My god,” he murmured as she stepped up.

“Hmm, close, but it’s just me,” she smirked. He chuckled. “Don’t know if I got the corset tight enough on my own –”

“You look gorgeous, darlin’,” Arthur softly murmured, covering her hand with one of his own.

“Would you like some tea, ma’am?” the bartender asked. Sparrow snorted.

“No. Don't lump me in with the temperance movement, sir. I'll have whatever beer he’s having,” she assured him. The bartender raised a brow, but poured without question, especially after a glance at Arthur's stony face. Sparrow took a deep drink of the cool, bubbly beverage, smiling in response to Arthur’s amusement at the mustache of foam that was left behind on her upper lip. Unused to acting refined after more than a year in the wilderness, Sparrow wiped it on her arm, pausing when Arthur pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her.

The two drank late into the night, giggling and joking with one another at the corner of the bar, happy as though they were in the wild, but dressed far nicer, a rare change from their norm or roughing it next to a campfire or within the dusty old cabin. 

“I figured since we weren't, well, you know..._ alone _the last time we was in a hotel room…thought we'd maybe try again. To relax. Take our time,” he purred. Arthur’s fingers drug slowly over Sparrow’s arm and his gaze took on a deliberate, predatory quality that made her feel warm in all the right places. His blue eyes scanned over her neckline and down to where her legs were sheathed in fancy material, and then back up to her face, searching there for interest. She put a hand on his leg beneath the bar, sliding it up the inside of his thigh until she felt that familiar bulge, which had begun to harden and grow thick.

“You’re Arthur Morgan,” said a voice next to them. With an irritated expression on his face, Arthur turned, mouth already open to respond with some smart ass comment or other, but his mouth snapped shut when he recognized the uniform of the man who was now next to him at the bar. This man worked for Cornwall Kerosene and Tar Company, as evidenced by his sooty clothing. Arthur’s stomach sank and Sparrow scooted around the bar, suddenly very nervous.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else,” Arthur said with an intense look at the man. He hoped he’d take the hint. Get the hell out of here and leave me alone or things will go badly for all of us, Arthur’s expression read. The man frowned.

“No, you’re Arthur Morgan. You stole that oil tanker from the Heartland Oil Field. I’m sure of it. You was wearin’ a bandana, but one of my fellas said he recognized that horse of yours. Yeah. There’s a bounty on your head, mister,” the man blurted, sizing Arthur up. Sparrow saw Arthur’s knuckles go white on his glass and she was glad she had opted to strap her revolver beneath the skirts of this ridiculous dress. Carefully, around the corner of the bar so that it could not be seen, she slipped her hand under her skirts and pulled the revolver out, ready for anything. She had long ago decided she would side with Arthur over anyone, including the law. For long years she had watched lawmen trample the poor, side with the rich, policing rules that would destroy the planet while harming the very people who lived on it. She was quite fed up with the law and all its wealthy friends. She’d choose an animal-loving outlaw any day, if given the choice, and it appeared that choice had come. 

“Mister,” Arthur said slowly and very, very intensely, “I’m gonna buy you a shot of whiskey. You’re gonna drink that whiskey, and you’re gonna walk out of here and pretend you never saw me, or you’re gonna end up eatin’ a whole mess of real hot lead and not off a plate, do we understand one another?”

_“I _understand you perfectly, Mr. Morgan,” said another man, who stood and stepped up behind Arthur and shoved the barrel of his revolver under Arthur’s ribs before Sparrow could say or do anything. He was wearing a thick black handlebar mustache shot through with silvery gray. His matching gray eyes were sharp and vulturine. “I thought I recognized you from somewhere and your new friend here has done me quite the favor remindin' me of your name. You’re wanted in Blackwater for some hefty crimes. Dead or alive,” the man drawled. He had a large revolver that matched the one in his right hand sitting on his left hip. A bounty hunter. Of course. “They’re payin’ a hefty bounty for you there too, sir. It’s twice as much if you’re delivered alive, lucky for you.” His gaze flickered to Sparrow. “Little lady, you’re gonna want to put that toy of yours away before you get yourself hurt. And Mr. Morgan? If you so much as breathe funny, I’ll fill this pretty filly of yours full of holes.” Arthur slumped a little, meeting Sparrow’s gaze and giving a subtle shake of his head. 

“I love you,” he mouthed so the man could not hear, but he saw it in the bar mirror and smirked nastily. 

“Come on,” the man said, pulling rope out of his satchel. He bound Arthur’s arms behind his back, pulled his guns off his hips and his hunting knife from its sheath.

Sparrow sat, frozen in place as she watched through the window, squinting to make out the scene in the darkness, which was only lit by a single wavering streetlamp. The man threw Arthur roughly onto the ground outside, shoving his face hard into the mud of the road. Arthur grimaced and spat out a mouthful of mud and manure before making a snide comment Sparrow couldn’t hear. It earned him a solid kick in the belly that took the breath out of Sparrow. The man tied Arthur’s legs together and then connected the ropes at his wrists to his ankles tightly. There was no escape from this, not without help. Swallowing, Sparrow weighed her options. The big stranger flopped a struggling Arthur up onto the back of his horse and climbed in the saddle, tipping his hat mockingly at Sparrow through the window. Sparrow waited until the man had begun to gallop off, then she was up in a heartbeat, revolver pointed at the man from the oil company, who seemed flabbergasted at the sudden scooping of his possible bounty by someone else.

“Move, and I’ll make you do your best impression of Swiss cheese, mister,” she warned, looking briefly over her shoulder to see which way the man had taken Arthur. “Which one of them nags is yours?” She demanded, pointing the barrel of the revolver in his face.

“Now miss,” began the bartender in a patronizing tone that grated her into a fury. Her head whipped toward him. She could feel her heartrate ramping up, saw the edges of her vision go dim.

_Not now, please not right now, _she begged her failing heart.

“Don’t think I won’t…” she took a labored breath, fighting back a cough, “I won’t put a bullet in you too, fella. You put that shotgun you’re eyein’ up on the bar where I can see it. Nice and slow. Good. Now you. Which goddamn animal is yours? Which one?!” She cocked her gun threateningly.

“The roan,” the man blurted. “The blue roan.”

“Good,” Sparrow pushed out a tight breath, and then she shot out the overhead lights, showering them in glass and darkening the entire parlor as she dashed toward the door, running for the blue roan.

They had spent much of the last year in a state of quiet relaxation and respite whenever Arthur visited her. 

Now was the time for action.


	13. A Bounty Paid

Sparrow Callaghan had never been a quiet, calm, genteel person. Ever. Even in her youth, she was bullheaded, argumentative and, above all else, opinionated. Her parents often found themselves exhausted answering the perpetual question after every command or request – “why?”

Sparrow had fought against patriarchal norms, to both her parents’ mingled pride and dismay, becoming one of the first women to attend the college she attained her degree from. She began her career without riding the coattails of her doctor father. She also refused to publish her work via the small publication company her father had helped found. She was her own woman and she insisted that she make a name entirely on her own.

If that name “S.N. Callaghan” sometimes gave the impression, or at least assumption that she was male, then so be it. Her first guidebook drawings were published when she was only seventeen, and she had fought tooth and nail to prove herself and maintain the reputation of her work ever since. She hated authority figures and more than once was removed from a scientific convention for getting into screaming matches with crotchety old men who thought they knew better than she simply because they had something dangling between their legs, a fact she pointed out heatedly and in graphic detail, causing an outrage among those gathered.

Nonetheless, the quality and detail of her work made it nigh on impossible for any book publisher to turn her away despite the fact that could she have used her own. She would not use her connections or advantages to prove her worth and abilities if she could avoid it. Sparrow Callaghan was a fighter.

But she was no killer. She had tracked the bounty hunter this far using skills Charles had taught her. In hindsight, she realized she should have rounded up her friend, as well as Javier, but she had been too worried about losing Arthur’s trail. She was crouching in thick bushes on a hill overlooking the small camp the man had returned to, the rifle she had pulled from her stolen horse aimed at the man’s head. She realized belatedly that the theft of the horse and the threats she had made in the bar in Edom probably meant she would now have a bounty too, but as she was already in the process of dying, it made little difference. Regardless, her focus was now on the bobbing head of the man who had taken Arthur from her. She paused for a moment, flicking the safety on and using the scope to find Arthur.

The big outlaw was bound with a long pole between his ankles, and another between his wrists, effectively preventing him from bringing either his legs or his arms together, hobbling him the way one would a horse. A metal collar had been fixed around his neck, a chain attached and threaded through the poles binding his limbs, and then wrapped and locked around a nearby tree. She thought for a moment about shooting the lock, but from the look of the poles, Arthur would be no more free than before, and her position would be exposed to her enemy.

Sparrow slid the rifle back to gaze at the man in question. He was flipping through papers that looked to be bounty contracts through the hazy glass of the scope.

“We might finally be free of this, boy,” he said aloud, voice muffled by distance. Sparrow frowned.

“You think so, Papa?” came an adolescent voice. Sparrow’s stomach sank as a young boy, maybe nine or ten stepped out of the nearby tent.

“Maybe so,” the graying bounty hunter said, folding the papers and putting them away. “Then maybe you and I can settle down somewhere. Maybe buy some sheep. Whaddaya think? You like sheep?” The child approached, nodding and clambering up into the man’s lap. “I know it’s been rough out here, son. I know it’s been hard since your mom…C’mere.” The man tugged the child in close, hugging him and putting an affectionate hand on the back of the child’s towy blonde hair.

“Shhhhhiiit,” Sparrow muttered under her breath, her resolution about killing this man failing her entirely. Her gaze through the scope dipped to look at Arthur again. The expression on his face, previously one of contempt, had softened. He was not looking at his captor anymore but was instead focused on the boy. His features slipped through a series of torn expressions, changing from interest to friendliness…then longing… and at last, a furrowed visage of terrible grief.

“What’s your name, boah?” Arthur called from where he was chained. The boy looked over at him shyly.

“Matthew.”

“Hush, boy. Don’t you speak to my son, or I’ll gag you,” the bounty hunter warned.

“Didn’t mean no harm by it,” Arthur told him. They were quiet for a long moment, the hunter staring heatedly at his prey, holding his young protectively. “I…I had a boy, once.” Hidden above them, Sparrow’s eyebrows shot up. That would be a conversation for another time, she thought, slowly worming her way closer, closer, closer, pleased that Arthur had offered so convenient a distraction. The hunter scoffed at Arthur.

“I imagine you don’t now because of the lifestyle you lead,” he snarled unkindly. Arthur, already looking defeated, deflated slightly at that, his shoulders slumping, his knees shaking where he stood uncomfortably in his bonds.

“You ain’t wrong, mister, but that’s not the whole truth. Truth is I was off tryin’ to make money the only way I ever knew how – stealin’ it. Meanwhile some bastard just like me was doin’ the same to my child and his mother, ‘cept I don’t kill folk as don’t deserve it. She…Eliza didn’t deserve it. He didn’t…deserve it,” he murmured, voice so quiet that Sparrow had to strain to hear even from where she lay, just behind the tent now.

“Your son,” the hunter asked. “What was his name?” Arthur laughed bitterly.

“Was a Bible name, just like your boy’s. Isaac," Arthur murmured. "His name was Isaac. I don’t reckon I know much about the Good Book, but I think mebbe she oughta have chosen somethin’ else.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” the hunter asked, having relaxed a bit now. Arthur met his eyes miserably.

“God demanded that Abraham kill his only son Isaac to prove his faith in Him.”

“Now you mention it, I know the story,” the hunter said, letting his son down from his lap. The child went to go play with a wooden horse, Arthur’s haunted eyes on him.

“Yeah,” Arthur drawled in an unreadable tone, forcing himself to look away. “Only diff’rence is God didn’t spare my boy,” he ground out after a long pause, clenching his jaw.

“So you figured you’d tweak God’s nose much as you could by robbin’, cheatin’ and killin’ your way across these United States, is that it?”

“You don’t know nothin’ about it, mister,” Arthur growled.

“Then why, precisely, are you tellin’ me?”

“‘Cause I figure somebody oughta know about my boy before they hang me. He’s the one thing in my life I ever regret losing. Until now, anyway.”

“Hmm. The other being that lovely young woman who was with you?” the hunter challenged with a smirk. Arthur nodded, wincing at the tug of the collar and chain around his neck.

“Don’t suppose you’d consider at least takin’ this damned collar off?” Arthur asked, mood sliding to one of despondent acceptance. The hunter glared.

“No. I’ve been bounty huntin’ for the better part of ten years. Hobblin' and chainin' is the best way I’ve ever found to make a man basically harmless. You ain’t no exception. So you can just sit down, and be quiet,” he snarled. “And don’t you talk to my son again, or else.” Arthur nodded and gingerly sat, legs forced shoulder-width apart, hands as well. His back was slumped. He was looking around for a way out, but could find none.

There was a scuffle, and a frightened whimper that drew the attention of both Arthur and the bounty hunter.

“Now then,” Sparrow announced herself, breathing hard as she held tight onto Matthew’s shirt collar. “Just how much money would it take for you to leave us alone?” she asked, preventing the child from fleeing. The hunter’s face went bright white, all the blood drained in an instant. He stood abruptly, hand resting on one of his guns before he thought better of it.

“How the hell did you find us? How did you get here without me hearin' you?”

“I have my ways,” Sparrow said, and she meant it. Being a field biologist meant knowing how to make yourself silent and invisible. She had covered herself, including the dress, in mud and leaves and dirt, even smearing it over her face and hands to cover her pale skin.

“You let go’a my boy or I’ll kill you, you stupid bitch,” the hunter growled, fingers curling around the handle of his revolver again.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Sparrow answered, her own pistol already in hand. She pointed the barrel at the back of Matthew’s head. The hunter didn’t need to know that she would never do it, that she would _never_ harm a child. He also didn’t need to know that the safety was on, and her finger was nowhere near the trigger. The child was shaking beneath her touch. “It’s alright, hon,” she told him. “Your daddy’s a smart man. He’s not gonna let you get hurt. What he is gonna do is let my friend go. Immediately. Isn’t that right, Mister….?”

“Brenham,” he answered in a tired tone. “David Brenham.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Brenham. You don’t need to know my name, seein’ as you already know my friend’s. Now, kindly unchain him, and we can all go about our business, no harm done.”

“I can’t do that, ma’am, he’s dangerous.” Temper shot, and terrified that her heart would betray her as it thundered unevenly in her chest Sparrow clamped her hand on Matthew’s shoulder and lifted her gun, safety now off, to point at Brenham. She clenched her jaw and a look of such intensity crossed her face that her jaw and her brows ached with it. She knew she looked predatory, knew she looked half-mad, but she would not let this man take Arthur to hang for a crime he had not even been present to commit.

“So am I,” she assured him. “Now let him go and we all walk away alive. Or don’t, and your boy here grows up an orphan.” Arthur flinched at that, face astonished. She met his eyes briefly, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring look that also conveyed that this was all just a very dangerous bluff.

“Alright,” Brenham said, holding his hands up to indicate surrender. “Alright. Fine. I’ll let him go. But you gotta promise me you’ll let me and my boy go safe.” A tremble marred his voice as he spoke, his eyes on his son.

“I’ll do you one better, Mr. Brenham,” Sparrow told him, allowing a friendlier, more reasonable expression to fall upon her features. “What’s the bounty on Arthur in Blackwater?” Brenham quoted her a very large number, but she didn’t falter.

“I see. Once I get back into town, I shall go to the post office,” she explained matter-of-factly, “Once I’m there, I shall notify my bank, the one in Saint Denis, that they are to hand over that amount, in cash, to a Mr. David Brenham in exchange for his bounty warrant for Arthur Morgan. Do we have a deal?”

“You’re joking,” Brenham exclaimed, shocked.

“I’m not. Do. We. Have. A. Deal?”

“Yes. Yes, ma’am, yes.”

“Good. Release my friend.” Sparrow watched closely as he unlocked the hobbles from Arthur, removing the bars and collar and tossing them aside. Arthur rose, rubbing feeling back into his wrists, but he didn’t look at Sparrow.

“My son. Please,” Brenham plead, a broken man.

“Why do you do this work with your son with you? What a foolish thing to do,” Sparrow commented, releasing the child, who scurried to his father, crying softly.

“I know. But I needed the money. I…I used to be an outlaw too,” he admitted. “But then my wife got caught up in my mess and…she died. I had to put food on the table and gunslingin’s all I knew how to do.” He looked guiltily over at Arthur, who grimaced disapprovingly. “I’m tryin’ to buy a ranch. Maybe tend some sheep.”

“How much?” Sparrow asked.

“What?” the bewildered man blurted, confused.

“How much more money do you need to never hunt another bounty again?”

“I…I don’t know. Maybe two thousand on top of what Mr. Morgan here would have earned me.”

“I’ll add it to the tab,” Sparrow told him, surprising both men.

“What?! Why?” Brenham asked suspiciously. Sparrow laughed bitterly.

“I won’t be needing it. I’m dying, Mr. Brenham. I’ve got the money in the bank and nothing to do with it. It’s yours, if you’ll agree to leave Mr. Morgan, and other men be.” Brenham frowned, considering. He was obviously mistrustful. It was too good to be true.

“Why would you do that? For me of all people?”

“Let’s just say,” Sparrow began with a glance at Arthur, “I have a friend who could have used the same chance, and did not have it. Call it a kind of delayed redemption, call it luck. Call it what it is, Mr. Brenham – a chance. A chance at a different life. I want Arthur safe and I want better for you and your son. The money will be there for you, whether you claim it or not. But if you so much as touch one hair on Arthur’s head, next time I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger when _your_ head is in my sights, son or not, Mr. Brenham, do we understand one another?” He barked a weary laugh.

“Perfectly.”

“Good.” Sparrow held her hand out and Brenham approached carefully, shook it. “I hope I never see you again, Mr. Brenham.”

“The same to you, ma’am. Mr. Morgan.” Arthur gave a soft grunt in response, his hands rested on his gunbelt, which he had found nearby and returned to his waist. Sparrow whistled for the blue roan, but it did not come.

“Damn,” she muttered. She was really hoping for the opportunity to somehow return the horse. Wordless, Arthur whistled. There was a distant neigh and the sound of hoofbeats. From out of the woods galloped Goldie, eager to obey his master. He nickered and pressed his face into Arthur’s hand, obviously pleased to see him. The horse must have followed Arthur from the livery in Edom. Arthur climbed on, offering a hand to Sparrow. His face was stony. She frowned, but took his hand, hauling herself up behind him. She took his waist and rested the side of her face against his broad shoulders.

Nudging Goldie to action, Arthur trotted off, leaving their erstwhile enemy behind them.


	14. Matthew 6

They rode for hours after their encounter with the bounty hunter. Night fell and still they rode, Arthur navigating by the stars and seeing by the light of a full moon. The outlaw said nothing, his only spoken words directed entirely to Goldie – a few “you’re alright boah’s” and “yeah, that’s my boah’s” said in a comforting tone that made Goldie’s ears swivel happily. A few times Sparrow tried to start a conversation, but he did not respond, so she finally stopped speaking.

At last, they reached a broad cave mouth. It was nestled in one of the large granite hills of eastern New Hanover, and looked surprisingly cozy, for a cave. It was not moist and cold immediately inside, though Sparrow could feel a draft wafting from deeper within it. There were old wooden boxes stacked here and there, and from these Arthur grabbed a few things. He pulled his suitcoat and vest off, tossing them aside. Sparrow watched him, concerned.

“I know it must have been bad, being captured again.” Arthur did not turn to face her, but instead put a hand flat on the wall of the cave, arm stretched above his head, which was sunk low between his shoulders. He had his eyes pressed tight shut, and his jaw muscles were ticking with effort.

“It ain’t that,” he finally said in a rough voice.

“Was it the –”

“That ain’t it neither!” he exploded, his eyes snapping open, his arms flopping to his sides, his face tight with fury. “You were gonna shoot that boy!” he cried, distressed. Sparrow’s face slackened.

“Arthur, I thought you knew me better than that. Of course, I wasn’t going to shoot that little boy. Or his father. It was all a bluff. I have no idea how I would have gotten us out of there if it hadn’t worked, you have to believe me,” she said, walking toward him and putting a hand gently on his arm. It was a mistake. He jerked away, grabbing her wrist in a bruising grip, his eyes wide with intensity.

“That. Ain’t. It,” he insisted. “It’s that…” His voice caught and his eyes watered slightly. “It’s that I wouldn’a hesitated if it’d been Dutch or Hosea or you in them hobbles. It wouldn’a stopped me,” he said, voice horrified. “I know what it is to lose a child and I still would’a painted the ground with that boy’s brains,” he forced out, forcing back either a sob or a moan. “All my life I’ve known nothin’ but robbin’ and cheatin’. It cost me everything that mattered to me and I still didn’t stop. And I can’t stop now, because I can’t leave my family. I can’t.” He stopped, pressing his index finger and thumb together over the bridge of his nose as he collected himself. He dropped his hand and looked at her suddenly. “Dutch keeps gettin’ more and more desperate,” he told her.

“He started a damn war between two feudin’ families in Lemoyne that damn-near killed us all. They kidnapped John’s boy. We got ‘im back, but it never should’a happened. None’a this should have happened. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s right anymore. Now Dutch has got this idea about us robbin’ the bank in Saint Denis, and there you go offerin’ that man more money than I’ve ever seen in my life, all to save my sorry ass, which sure as shit don’t deserve savin’, and damned if that money ain’t part’a what I’m supposed to be makin’ off with. And it’s all because,” he laughed a manic half-giggle that held no humor whatsoever, and now his eyes were certainly glittering with unsplit tears, “All because you’re dyin’. And there ain’t a goddamn thing I can do about it. I am…irredeemably lost, Sparrow. I can’t find my way outta this. I gotta help them with this bank plan, but after that…after that I’m done, I’m gone. You and I, we’re gonna get the hell outta here. Dutch keeps talkin’ about some island called Tahiti, well I say ‘to hell with Tahiti’ you and I, we’ll go wherever we hafta to be alone, and I will hold you until your dyin’ breath, I swear to God,” he told her, his voice trembling.

Sparrow sat for a moment, utterly exhausted, the mud on her face and arms cracking as she moved.

“Oh Arthur. For the record, you wouldn’t have shot that little boy. I saw the look in your eyes. I saw your pain. I felt it, just looking at your face. I am _so sorry _that happened to you, and to them_._” Arthur sighed, roughly grinding the heel of his hand into his eyes to force away the unwept tears.

“It didn’t make it any easier that I didn’t love her,” he said quietly. “She was…just a girl. A pretty waitress, nothin’ more. I was drunk, and young. She was lovely and stupid,” he laughed. “I took her out in the alley behind the restaurant and what we did can’t be called ‘makin’ love.’ I was like a bull elk in rut, just feelin’, no emotions. But then I got a letter, which I kept all the way until I lost it. In Blackwater,” he said bitterly. “But I still remember ‘most every word. _‘Dear Mister Morgan, I am unsure what to write here, but it is important that I reach you. I know it was you because I seen your face on one of them bounty posters and I knew it was you who took me a few months back. My mama taught me my letters, but never did teach me how to make my words pretty. Ain’t no pretty way to say this,’”_ Arthur recited, his eyes going distant, _“‘but you have ruined me. I am with child and have no way in the world to care for it. My mama died this past spring, and daddy’s in jail. I fear what I must do if you do not respond. If I do not hear back, I may have to debase myself further than I have already. Please help me. Eliza.’”_

Sparrow put a hand flat over her mouth at the emotion in his recital of the letter, her heart aching for him. She sat silently, just letting him vent.

“I rode back into that town, first thing, offered to marry her. Dutch thought I was bein’ a damn fool. Didn’t matter much, I wanted to do right by her. She refused to marry me proper. Insisted marriage had to be based on love. What we had was never love. But that boy…my boy. My Isaac.” His gaze flicked to hers, pain pooling in his deep blue eyes. “That there was a love unlike any I knew before, nor have I since. I dropped in, whenever I could. Bought her a ring so folks didn’t talk. Made sure they were cared for. Then one day, I come back, ridin’ up to bring Isaac somethin’ for his birthday. There were two gravestones to greet me instead of two people. Her pa come and run me off, tellin’ me it were my fault it happened. He weren’t ‘xactly wrong. Ten dollars. They both got shot dead for ten measly _fuckin’_ dollars.” He breathed out hard. “And I didn’t learn a damn thing from it. Still haven’t, ‘pparently, ‘cause I’m going to rob a bank two days from now.” He scowled, wiping his mouth.

“How do I get myself outta this mess?” he asked no one in particular, his gaze fixed to the cave’s ceiling.

“We will figure this out, Arthur. Things will get better,” she told him, but the words tasted of dishonesty, leaving a bitter flavor in her mouth. He hummed noncommittally, face grim and tired. There were dark rings under his eyes.

“There’s a hot spring, down deeper in the cave. Thought mebbe you’d wanna get all that mud off,” Arthur told her wearily.

“Sorry about the dress.”

“Don’t worry about it, I stole it anyway,” he confirmed, voice miserable. She laughed and took his hand.

“Come on.” He led the way, holding a kerosene lantern out in front of them. They plunged deeper into the cave until they found the warm pools Arthur mentioned. Glowworms illuminated the ceiling of the little natural enclosure, giving it an eerie, blue-green atmosphere. Sparrow wondered absently if this species had been studied and named, but it was not the time. Tearing her attention away, she stripped Arthur’s clothing off gently, pouring warm water from the spring across the torn flesh on his wrists. He helped her out off the dress, tossing it aside, running a hand down to her hip and pulling her close for a hesitant but tender kiss.

Stepping into the spring, they sat on a submerged outcrop of rock, leaning back and staring at the glowing larvae, which looked like large blue stars in a brown-black night sky. Unable to resist temptation for more than a few moments, Arthur pulled Sparrow onto his lap and was kissing her neck and her breasts, worshipping her with his mouth, his hands roaming everywhere as though to reassure himself that she was real. She did the same, stroking over shoulders and chest, running fingers through sweaty hair and dragging nails down a soft, but muscular belly. When he pressed himself inside her she let out a small cry, pushed over the edge already by the warmth and his touch. She called his name softly as they moved together, the water shushing around them as he moved her up and down in his lap, his mouth open, panting in the steaming heat of the cave.

They stayed pressed together long after Arthur had spent himself inside of Sparrow, him bracing an arm behind her back to hold her in place on his lap. Her head was rested in the crook of his shoulder, her breathing soft against his ear. After a while, she pulled back, meeting his eyes in the glow from the worms attached to the ceiling.

“I asked you once what you thought happened after we die,” Sparrow began. “Truth is no one can really know. But I think maybe there’s a God up there. And I think that if he judges us, that he’ll judge us by what’s in our hearts, not just by our actions. You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan, but you have been dealt an unfair lot in life. You’ve done the best you can. You have given of yourself again and again and again. Don’t you think you oughta stop sometime, while there’s still you left?”

Arthur looked at her, taking her hands in his own.

“Like I said, just this one last thing for Dutch. Just the bank job. Then I’m gone.”

“There’s a special kind of relief you feel, knowing you’ve freed someone from themselves,” Sparrow mused. “And a special kind of agony watching someone keep reapplying their own chains.” Arthur stared at her for a long moment.

“I know I can’t keep followin’ Dutch down this path he’s taking, Sparrow, but I can’t just run off. I gotta help him with this one last thing.” They sat quietly, Sparrow still in his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder again, her body soft against his own. He contemplated his circumstances while rubbing lazy circles up and down Sparrow’s back with his fingertips. He closed his eyes and scoffed. “Tahiti. I been runnin’ all my life. I’m tired of runnin’. Tahiti, Texas, Timbuktu, I don’t much care so long as I’m by your side, darlin’.” There was no response. “Darlin’?”

In the darkness of the cave, aside from the lazy dripping of water, there was silence.

\--------------

When Sparrow awoke, it was in the convent of the large Catholic church of Saint Denis according to the nun who greeted her when she startled to consciousness. She had no idea how she had gotten here, but her chest ached and she was short of breath.

“Wh-where is Arthur?” she murmured, stirring.

“It’s alright, my dear,” said a kind-looking nun. “He brought you here so that you could rest, and heal. He told us you had a bad heart. I don’t think anyone truly has a bad heart,” she teased, pouring Sparrow a glass of water, which she accepted thankfully. “I am Mother Calderón. Mr. Morgan spoke very highly of you.”

“Where is he?” Sparrow asked, voice rough.

“I do not know, child, but my prayers are with him.” Sparrow swallowed.

“Reverend Mother…how long was I asleep?”

“Nearly a week. Here. Eat.” The blood drained from Sparrow’s face.

“Was the bank robbed? The bank here in town?” she asked, pushing away the bowl of soup she was being insistently handed. Sister Calderón frowned and stopped trying to force the soup into Sparrow’s hand.

“From what I have heard, some men tried to rob the bank in Saint Denis, yes. At least one man was killed in the streets. An awful business,” she said, crossing herself. Sparrow began to pant, feeling panic rising.

“Was it Arthur? Please, Reverend Mother, you have to tell me. Is Arthur Morgan still alive?”

“From what I have read in the papers, he was not one of the men killed, but his fate is in God’s hands now, Ms. Callaghan. Please. Eat. I will find out more for you if I can. In the meantime, might I suggest a reading of scripture to bring you peace? Perhaps Matthew six, verses twenty-five through twenty-eight.” Mother Calderón handed Sparrow a Bible, setting the bowl of soup on the bedside table and stepping away.

Given no other recourse, Sparrow opened the book and turned to the suggested passage.

> “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

Sparrow didn’t feel much better after reading the verse, but she did feel slightly less like a reanimated corpse after eating some of the soup. She was tired, she realized, and extremely aware of her sluggish heartbeat. Her fingertips were blue, more blue than they had been in months. The tips felt tingly and cold. Resigned that there was nothing she could do for Arthur at the moment, she laid her head back and drifted off to sleep.

When she dreamed, she dreamed of a deer, its throat in the jaws of a cougar, its mouth gasping wetly for breath, blood splattering the ground before it.


	15. If We Must Die, Let It Be Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited again.

A month passed without word from or of Arthur. Then two…three…four. They blended together like one continuous monotone of staticky noise. Two months into Arthur’s absence, Sparrow eventually recovered well enough to return to the cabin. She hired a carriage to take her most of the way and hiked in, taking the grassy trail slowly, her mouth open to pull in gasping breaths of air, her head feeling light. When she opened the door, she found the cabin much as she had left it, but with an even thicker coating of dust over all the surfaces. She spent the better part of the day cleaning it and sorting the canned and dried food she had left there before she had gone to Edom with Charles. There was no evidence that anyone had been here since she had abandoned the cabin two months before.

Pewter was long gone, either stolen or wild now. She cried over his loss, feeling as though another part of Arthur had been taken from her, but in the end it made little difference. She knew how to hunt and how to trap. She didn’t need a horse for riding into town anymore. She had things she had to do before she died, or at least things she had to do to keep herself distracted, never mind that she wore the shirt Arthur had left her in when he dropped her off at the hospital every day. The soft baby blue cotton shirt brought her some small comfort in his absence. Even after washing, it still smelled like Arthur, like pine needles, coffee, mint soap, wood smoke and clean horses.

Sparrow continued her work, dutifully waking up early in the mornings to observe the birds, sketching, painting, making notes, but it all felt empty. When the White-throated Sparrows sang, she wept, not knowing if Arthur could hear them any longer.

\---------------

There were no White-throated Sparrows native to Guarma. The small brown, white and yellow birds were found no farther south than the southernmost tip of Florida.

Except when blown to the Caribbean islands by a storm.

When Arthur awoke, throat parched, lips chapped, face burnt to a crisp brownish-red, he groaned, weakly wiping sand from his cheek. He stood and surveyed his surroundings, holding his shoes in one hand, letting the moist sand of the beach sink between his toes. He didn’t know where he was, or that White-throated Sparrows weren’t native there. All he did know is that there was one, just one, perched in the sugarcanes nearby where he had been washed ashore. It was singing its song for a mate that would never again hear its voice, separated by ocean and by fate.

\--------------

Five months since Sparrow had been brought to Saint Denis by Arthur, she heard thundering hoofbeats outside the cabin. Her heartbeat quickened with terror, not knowing who might be coming to bother or attack her. She pulled out her revolver, ready for whatever the threat may be.

There was a soft knock at the door, followed by a storm of coughing.

When Sparrow cracked open the door, the man standing before her was almost unrecognizable.

“I came jus’ soon as I could,” he blurted in a rough voice, and then his legs went out from under him.

Only barely able to lift him, even as thin as he was, Sparrow drug the unconscious figure of one Arthur Morgan into her cabin and pulled him up onto the bed. She sat beside him, not quite feeling as though he was real. He looked like a wax figure, his skin pale and thin. Small broken capillaries were scattered across his nose and over sallow cheeks. He had never had creases in his cheeks before, but he had lost so much weight that the skin hung loose like a furled ship’s sail. The veins and tendons on his huge hands protruded prominently and the tips of each finger were a blue that was a startling match for the end of Sparrow’s own. Blood was spattered in a fine mist around his thinned lips and she saw within his nostrils a crust of bloody mucus.

“Oh Arthur,” she murmured, heart in her throat. Still unconscious, he didn’t move when she lifted his eyelid. His pupil constricted when exposed to light, but the normally bright white sclera were stained a concerning pink, all the little veins blown wide with stress from coughing. Carefully prying his mouth open, she saw ulcers on the roof of his mouth and down the back of his throat. His tonsils were enflamed, red as a Northern Cardinal’s back. Lifting his shirt, she winced when she saw signs of an old beating, the skin mottled with yellowing brown bruises. His waist was tiny compared to his usual bulk, all the skin drawn up around atrophying muscles. His hip bones jutted startlingly upwards, the only thing preventing his gunbelt falling down had been that he had hooked one side of it onto his pelvic arch. “Consumption,” she murmured, holding back a sob. She had suspected when she had seen him coughing before he had gone missing, but with as much as he smoked, she had supposed it had been that. But now, all the symptoms laid unmistakably before her, she knew. Her father had diagnosed dozens of cases. She knew what tuberculosis looked like, and Arthur Morgan had it.

Arthur awoke the next day as Sparrow was making a stew. He looked around warily, eyes widening.

“Am I dead?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she answered. He sat up with a groan and then began to cough, hacking hard into his hand, which came away bloody.

“Sorry,” he forced out in a rough, phlegmy voice, a few more coughs racking his body. She brought him a wetted rag, wiped his face gently before handing it to him to wipe his hand. He met her eyes with a frown. “You alright, girl?” he asked her, touching her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She smiled sadly, swallowing hard to compose herself.

“I’m still here,” she told him thickly. “Where were you?”

“Hell,” he answered immediately, accepting a mug of honeyed tea, though he wrinkled his nose at the taste. He preferred coffee. “Guarma. Lil’ island, close to Cuba.”

“I know it,” she told him.

“We tried to rob that bank in Saint Denis,” he went on, sounding almost apologetic. “Then we tried to make a break for it, those of us who survived, anyways. Got on a ship. Ship went down. Same ol’ luck, I guess,” he drawled, stopping to cough, waving Sparrow away when she offered to wipe his face again. “Dutch has lost his damn mind. I see that now,” he whispered, his voice haunted. “Strangled an old woman in front of me on Guarma. That’s after he fed a politician in Saint Denis to a gator before we tried to hit that damn bank. I had to find my people, first thing when I got back, see how things were. I owed it to ‘em. They’re alright. Not great. Got attacked by them damn Pinkertons before I could do a damn thing. Those bastards always seem to be hot on our tails. Moved ‘em to a new camp and it ain’t much better. John, he got arrested trying to rob that bank, so I,” he laughed, “I went on quite the adventure savin’ his sorry hide.” He met her eyes, coughed again. “And then, well. Then I went back to Saint Denis to look for you and collapsed in the street.”

“I can guess the rest,” she whispered, seeing the pain in his eyes. He didn’t want to have to say it out loud.

“After everythin’ that happened, I thought about not comin’ back here. Thought about just letting you think I was dead, letting you live the rest of your life in peace. Couldn’t take it anymore. I had to see you.” Sparrow put a reassuring hand on his.

“‘_Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,_’” she quoted grimly.

“What in the hell was that?” Arthur questioned, brow quirked.

“Shakespeare. _Macbeth.”_

“Hmm. Ain’t read that one.” He met her eyes with his bloodshot ones.

“We’re together in this now. In death. You know that already, right?” Sparrow asked him.

“The doctor told me,” Arthur confirmed, setting his jaw. “Guess it’s only fair, given the life I’ve led.” Sparrow barked a small laugh, cuffing him on the arm.

“So you’re saying I deserve death, too? No, Arthur, all this is just the weaving of the fates, no more. Just one more unfair hand dealt in the game the universe plays with us all.”

“Yeah, well, don’t change the fact ‘twere my choices got me sick. There was a man…Thomas Downes. He owed a debt to the gang. Weren’t much, but it had to be repaid. I…I beat him. Got in his face.” He chuckled bitterly, coughed. “He coughed in my face while I was shakin’ him like a ragdoll. You kin guess the rest, I reckon.” Sparrow made a noise of agreement, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with an irritated motion. “I acted like a demon to that man, and now I’ll be joinin’ ‘im in hell.”

“Arthur…” He looked away from her, clenched his jaw, coughed again.

“I spent my whole life livin’ for someone else, for something else, let myself get consumed by…I don’t really even know what. But I know I gotta do better afore I die,” he told her, his face resolute.

“Well then, if we must die, let it be together,” she half-joked, smiling wanly. Arthur thought for a long moment.

“I had a long time to think on that ride back to find the folk in camp. I hadn’t been told I was dyin’ yet, but I knew somethin’ was off, somethin’ was wrong. I thought back on all the nasty thangs I done, all them bad deeds and when that doctor told me what it was I thought ‘maybe I deserve this.’ Maybe I earned it.” Sparrow put a hand on his knee to comfort him through this. “T’weren’t more’n a coupla days after I was diagnosed that I couldn’t bear to be away from ya anymore. I came here, tryin’ my damnedest to stay upright in the saddle and I thought. And I come up with a plan. Sparrow, I know you’re workin’ to get your paintin’s published and to identify all these pretty birds, but I could really use your help. I need you by my side. I need to make things right with all them folk I hurt. And I need to get my people away from Dutch. Will you come with me? Will you ride with me?”

Sparrow stared at him.

“Why are you asking me if I'll give up everything that mattered to me before I met you?” His face fell, and he opened his mouth to speak, pulling away from her. She stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn and look at her. She was smiling slightly. “No, why are you _asking_ when you should _know_ that of course I'll go with you? When you should know that none of that matters to me anymore. I would follow you to the ends of the earth, Arthur Morgan. I’ll follow you beyond that, if I can.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he murmured, cupping her cheek with a cool hand.

“You really think that all you’ve done is evil? That every act you’ve ever committed would doom your soul? You are a good man, Arthur Morgan, you’ve just been led astray. I hope you have time enough left to realize that. All the bad you’ve done, all the harm, there were reasons you did it, and no, maybe not all of them were justified, but right and wrong aren’t always black and white, Arthur.” She sighed, rubbing her thumb comfortingly on the back of his hand where she was holding it. “When do we start?” Arthur smiled the first real smile he had felt cross his face in months.

“Right after I get done kissin’ you,” he told her, pulling her close. He suppressed a cough and she wiped his mouth gently with the rag, though he wrinkled his nose at her fretting over him.

“I can get you something to help the cough. I may not be able to cure this, but I can delay the inevitable for as long as possible.”

“Shh,” he insisted, pressing dry lips to hers. She melted against him and for just a moment, the world melted away. Their illnesses did not matter. Their eminent deaths did not matter. All that mattered was that he had come back to her. Very gently, she slung her leg over him, draping her body atop his. She reached a hand down and massaged him to arousal, swallowing his cock down with a talented mouth until he emitted a groan that turned into a muffled cough. Pressing her hips down over his, she rode him with slow, achingly tender movements, letting his hands roam across her hips, stuttering over her waist and massaging her breasts. She arched her back as she rocked back and forth atop him, kissing him gently on the sharp bows of his collarbone, pressing her lips to his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, and finally, as she sighed from the pulse of pleasure flooding her, she imparted a kiss upon the place where she could feel his softly beating heart. Arthur gasped, feeling warmth and adoration flood him. When her lips grazed his chest, he wished it would burn a brand upon his heart that marked him hers forever.

From outside the cabin window, birds sang a chorus to the setting of the sun.


	16. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to anyone who has read my FC fics, I really like the finger-writing thing because my spouse does that with me. :)

Sparrow had initially thought that riding with a dying Arthur as he worked to redeem himself would be a Herculean feat of anguish. Instead, it was sweet, and deeply fulfilling. The outlaw took his time, pushing his limits only occasionally. When the coughing was too much, he would stop, drink some honeyed tea or take one of the tonics she made for him. They slept together beneath the stars, curled up and discussing the wonders of the universe, philosophy, joking and laughing, and only occasionally crying, Sparrow, not Arthur, over their fate. They wandered the wilds, finding people to help, often people Arthur had either robbed or terrorized on some task from the gang or other. They found the old Downes’ farm empty, but Arthur had glimpsed Mrs. Downes and her son at the Van Horn Trading Post a month or so before. They made their way from Sparrow’s cabin in the far western forests of the Heartlands and travelled northeast so he could meet with others who he owed along the way.

The Wapiti Indian Reservation was easily the most heart-wrenching operation. Arthur left Sparrow behind to speak with Chief Rains Fall, returning hours later with various scratches and scrapes from sneaking around in brambles, but carrying a sacred pipe he had recovered from a group of army thugs, much to the tribe’s relief. Arthur warned them about letting Dutch get them caught up in gang business, pleading with Eagle Flies not to attack, not to bring unwanted attention upon his people. Arthur could not, of course, stop them from making their own choices, but at least now they could make an informed choice.

They were well north of Annesburg, still deep in the southern foothills of the mountains when Sparrow froze.

“Do you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?” he questioned, frowning. “I don’t hear anything.” Arthur scanned the forest for danger, brow furrowed in confusion, listening.

“Exactly,” Sparrow murmured, pulling out her rifle, nervous. Arthur did the same, chambering a round and looking around warily. There was a distant shriek and a massive roar. “Go!” Sparrow shouted, spurring her horse, a cheap Tennessee Walker she had picked up in Valentine. It reared and whinnied, but launched itself forward with Arthur hot in pursuit on Goldie. Sparrow dashed through the forest, dodging branches and wincing as leaves slapped her face. Her horse stumbled and barely caught its footing as it ran down an embankment to an area clear of trees. Before her was a massive grizzly bear, reared up its back toward her as it threatened a terrified looking man and woman who were cowering on the far side of the clearing. The man had nothing but a small caliber rifle in his hands. He shot the bear in the throat, but that just made the bear angrier. It lunged at him, swiping with a paw that caught him hard on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The woman collapsed backwards and then scrambled, clambering away on hands and knees, looking over her shoulder with an expression of dread.

Arthur aimed and shot at the bear, a desperate shot just to the side of Sparrow’s shoulder. The bullet hit the back of its skull, skittering down the tough bone and exiting, hitting a nearby tree with a thud. Furious, the bear turned, its ugly brown eyes, red around their rims, glaring at Arthur, who paled, and then Sparrow, who made a sound of terror in her throat.

In the face of several hundred pounds of fury and death, Sparrow forced herself to focus. Raising her rifle, Sparrow sighted, exhaled, and shot. The bullet slammed into the bear’s eye. For a moment, nothing changed. Then, it whimpered in a deep growl, stumbled backwards, and fell heavily on the man it had been attacking, dead.

“Help me get it off him!” Sparrow yelled to anyone listening, leaping down off her horse. Both Arthur and the nameless woman pushed the massive creature off the man, who gulped in air, wheezing and whimpering.

“Cal, Cal, are you alright?” the woman asked desperately. The man, Cal evidently, shuddered but nodded, despite the fact that dark red blood was beginning to bubble from his gashed shoulder.

“Thanks to your fine shooting, yes,” he murmured, making eye contact with Sparrow, who tipped her hat.

“Sparrow Callaghan. This here’s Arthur.”

“Cal, Cal Balfour,” the man said, rising painfully to his feet. “This is my wife, Charlotte.”

“Thank you!” Charlotte exclaimed, first to Arthur, then Sparrow. “If it weren’t for you two, my husband would be dead, and me with him. I think we may have bitten off more than we can chew, Cal.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” he argued, but he looked pale, his shoulder still leaking blood down his arm. “We’ll make it.”

“Not with that thing you won’t,” Arthur told him, pointing at his gun. “Do y’all even know how to hunt? You look kinda…green, pardon me sayin’.” Husband and wife looked at one another, reddening.

“We moved out here for the fresh air. Away from the city. Away from all the horrid civilization,” Cal chuckled. “I’m afraid we brought more civilization with us than good sense. But still. It’s what we want. Charlotte here wants to be a writer and me, well, I just don’t want to be a banker anymore. At any rate, please, come dine with us. We don’t have much in the way of food…” Arthur began to laugh.

“Don’t have much in the way of food,” he chuckled, making eye contact with Sparrow. “This fella says he don’t have much in the way of food,” he laughed. Sparrow smiled, putting a kind hand on Charlotte’s arm. The woman was trembling.

“You’ve got a lot in the way of food now, friend. Do you have salt?” Charlotte looked at her blankly for a moment, then nodded.

“Yes, yes, we have salt.”

“Good. Then you’ll have food for a while. Arthur, you drag the carcass to the house, please.” Now, Sparrow turned her attention to Cal, knowing that shock was the only reason he was still on his feet. She didn’t want to frighten him, but his injury was clearly quite serious. “Mr. Balfour, I believe you are bleeding out from your shoulder. Now, now, don’t panic. Here.” She pressed her handkerchief hard to his shoulder and gave him a reassuring nod. “You’ll be alright, but we need to get you to your house. Is it close?”

“About half a mile that way,” Charlotte indicated, breathless. “I think,” she mused, looking discouraged, her eyes on her pale husband, who had begun to breathe hard, the pain from his injury now making itself known. “Our home is northeast of here, I know that much.”

“This way, then,” Sparrow indicated after a quick glance at the sun. “Arthur, do you have the carcass handled?”

“Yeah, I got it,” he told her, already in the process of binding the big animal in a large lump that could be pulled by Goldie. Sparrow wrapped Cal’s shoulder with a spare shirt from her pack and helped both him and Charlotte onto her horse.

“Charlotte, you need to hold pressure on that wound. I’ll lead the horse. Everything will be alright,” she promised in a calming tone she had often heard her father use when speaking to patients. “Alright. Off we go.”

\-----------

Two hours later, Cal’s wound was cauterized and sewn shut and then wrapped in clean cotton cloth. He was leaned back comfortably in a chair as Charlotte chatted Arthur and Sparrow about their plans, and their fears over a couple of seared bear steaks that Arthur had cut and helped season.

“Seems to me y’all need a bit of an introduction to livin’ on your own,” Arthur observed.

“We can take a day or two,” Sparrow offered. “Maybe show you a few things?”

“You and your husband are so kind, Mrs. Callaghan,” Charlotte said, face beatific.

“Oh,” Sparrow interrupted to correct her, but Arthur put his hand on hers gently and squeezed it with a little affectionate look that took the breath out of her. She blushed and smiled. “Arthur is kind, Charlotte. I’m just me.” Charlotte chuckled, her wide, friendly eyes looking at the two of them admiringly.

“You make quite the handsome couple, but if you don’t mind my saying, you look a bit under the weather.” Arthur and Sparrow glanced at one another.

“Well,” Sparrow began, “I have a heart murmur. And Arthur…” Her voice caught in her throat. This was only the second time she’d had to say it out loud. “Arthur is…Arthur…”

“I’m a bit poorly myself,” he finished for her with a small, tight smile. “I reckon this grub oughta help though.”

“Well, it’s thanks to you we have any at all. Please, feel free to take the guest room. There’s a bed and some clean clothing. I can scrub your clothes for you, if you’d like.”

“I can help with that,” Sparrow offered.

“Nonsense. You’re my guest. If it weren’t for you I’d be digging a grave, not doing laundry. Isn’t that right, Cal?” she asked, taking his hand with a soft, grateful look at him.

“That’s right,” he said weakly. “This hurts somethin’ awful, but it could have been worse.”

“You just keep drinking that tea from those plants I showed you,” Sparrow told him, having noticed some yarrow and ginseng near their house. “It’ll keep infection away.”

“How did you both learn what you know?” Charlotte asked.

“Well, I’m a biologist, my father was a doctor. Arthur here’s mostly picked things up in passing. It’s a good thing for us all he never bothered to get much schooling or he’d take over the world. Sharp as a tack, this one,” Sparrow said fondly. Arthur reddened.

“Don’t tease me,” he begged.

“I’m not,” Sparrow said seriously, with eyes and attention only for Arthur. “You’re the smartest man I know. And the kindest. And the handsomest.” Arthur’s ears had gone nearly maroon at the tips, unused as he was to being complimented. He shook his head stubbornly, holding up his hands to stop any further flattery.

“Now, I ain’t none of those things, or you don’t know many men,” he argued.

“You two must be newlyweds,” Charlotte giggled. Sparrow huffed a laugh at their little inside joke, eyes glittering at Arthur, who smirked.

“You might say that.”

“Well, if you two don’t mind, this day has quite taken it out of me, you might say,” Charlotte told them. “I’ve got to get Cal to bed before he can’t get there on his own. Come on, love,” she encouraged, helping him up. Cal groaned, but held out his uninjured arm so Arthur could shake his hand.

“You’re a good man, Arthur.” Arthur scratched the back of his head.

“Dunno about that,” he tutted. Sparrow cuffed him on the arm and he closed his mouth, taking the deserved compliment. “If’n ye feel up to it in the mornin’, I’ll show you how to hunt and prepare game. I’ve got that bear drained, but it’ll need butcherin’ too, mor’n what I already did for dinner. Also, I’ve got a better rifle for ya. You need somethin’ that can take down more than a squirrel or a real angry mouse,” he laughed.

“I do appreciate it, Arthur. Good night.”

“‘Night,” Arthur told them, echoed by Sparrow. The two sat by the fire for a few more minutes, just thinking, Arthur’s arm slung easily over Sparrow’s shoulder.

“So. Newlyweds, eh?” Sparrow teased. Arthur’s eyes twinkled.

“Didn’t figure they’d let us sleep in the same bed if we corrected ‘em,” he told her, nuzzling her neck with his lips, kissing his way up to her ear and then to her cheek and finally her lips. She sunk into the kiss, threading her fingers into his blonde-brown hair.

“Come on,” she said, tugging him away from the fireplace and toward the guestroom. “It’s been a while since we slept in an actual bed.”

“Yeah,” Arthur huffed a lascivious laugh, “‘slept.’” He pinched her on the ass as she walked toward the door. It seemed that imminent death made Arthur more desperate to make love to her, more desperate to touch her. His movements against her since his diagnosis had been urgent, aching, his mouth devouring hers, his hands on her whenever possible. He would brush his hands over her waist as she stirred up their campfire on their journey, his fingers would seek hers as she folded their tent, helping her with it. His lips would press against the back of her neck as she brushed her horse, his hands encircling her hips. And now, curled together in a warm and comfortable bed, his hands were everywhere, stripping her of her clothing, fingernails raking down her sides, hands massaging breasts, curling the fingers of his left hand tightly, roughly in her hair as he kissed her, biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, lapping the sting away with his tongue. “Sorry, sweetheart, I jus…I need ya.”

“Arthur, our hosts are in the next room past the closet,” Sparrow whispered in his ear.

“I don’t care,” he growled, fingers seeking between her legs.

“Arthur…” His fingers pressed inside. “Arthur,” she moaned softly and he clamped a hand over her mouth as his fingers moved within her. “Arthur!” she cried, voice muffled by his fingers.

“Shh,” he murmured in her ear, his teeth grazing the cup of her ear, his nose tickling her cheek as he pressed her down into the mattress, the length of him warm and hard within his red underwear. Her hand ran down his waist, grasping him through the soft fabric, drawing a hard breath out of him that nearly turned into a cough, but he managed to stifle it and swore.

Fingers trembling with frantic need, Sparrow nearly tore his underwear unbuttoning them until his erection sprung free. Her fingers grasped him and he breathed out hard again, again forcing away a cough.

“Sweetheart, honey, darlin’, gorgeous,” he whispered in her ear, a murmured litany of affection as though he had forgotten her name in lieu of near-hysterical adoration. Sparrow sat up, pushing Arthur up so she was sitting in his lap, his legs crossed beneath her. She sank onto his cock, sighing at the feeling of fullness and friction. Arthur wrapped his arms around her as she encircled his waist with her legs, rocking against him slowly. He massaged her shoulders, running his hands down to the globes of her ass, fingers kneading soft muscle as he pressed her hips toward him so that he could sink deeper into her. His chin bumped hers in the dark as they fumbled against each other, mouths searching.

“I love you, Arthur,” Sparrow sighed as he tipped his hips up, helping her to sink up and down upon him, pleasure radiating throughout her as they pressed as close as they could get.

“I love you too, darlin’,” he hummed, holding her close, his hand now cupping the back of her head, his fingers brushing softly through her hair. Their movements were slow against each other. Both were tired and out of breath after only a few minutes, but it mattered little. They found their pleasure within one another regardless of their exhaustion, regardless of her heart, and his lungs. Between the two of them, they were whole.

Arthur gasped, groaned, pressing his hips hard against Sparrow’s as he chased his climax, emptying himself within her as she murmured worship into his ear.

They lay side by side, Sparrow tracing little shapes and circles on Arthur’s belly, smirking as he jumped and jerked slightly, ticklish. After a while, he realized what she was writing with her fingers, his brows lifting. Sparrow’s fingers on his flesh, whether absently or with intent, were scribing a desperate plea: _“Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay…”_ Arthur grabbed her hand, met her eyes in the bare light of the moon through the window.

“I will. Long as I can. You do the same.”


	17. Redemption or Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur meets with Mrs. Downes. Sparrow sends her paintings to Albert and Arthur decides to confront Dutch.

Only moderately satisfied that the Balfours could care for themselves once he left, Arthur spent the next two days hunting small game for them and, with Sparrow’s assistance, built several snare traps for them with a promise to return if he could. Sparrow tried to ignore the way his tone went a little hopeless at the end of his sentence. A line deepened between Charlotte’s brows and she put a hand on Arthur’s upper arm comfortingly.

“Thank you,” she said in a sincere tone, “for everything. You too, Sparrow. I hope we’ll see you again.”

“And I hope to read that novel of yours soon,” Sparrow countered in a lighter tone than she knew the sentence deserved. Arthur gave her a small, almost disapproving look, but he smiled when he turned back to Cal and Charlotte.

“Well, you should be all set. We’ll catch ya later,” he told them, climbing up onto Goldie and waiting for Sparrow to mount her own horse. “You ever gonna name that nag?” he asked as they made their way toward Annesburg.

“Dunno,” she admitted thoughtfully. “Guess I wasn’t sure if I’d be around long enough for her to learn her name.” Arthur swallowed hard at that and Sparrow regretted saying it. The mare was a dusty brown, rather drab as a whole, but she was small and her gait was pleasant. It was hardly her fault that Pewter had left such an aching hole in Sparrow’s heart. Some horses just can’t be replaced. Sparrow reached into her saddlebag and pulled from it a little dried nugget of molasses that had been mixed with mint oil to make a crude, sticky candy. She leaned down and offered it to the horse, who took it, chewing happily around her bit. “Molasses,” Sparrow declared. “‘Molly’ for short.” Arthur laughed at that.

“Probly oughta not mention that if you ever encounter Miss O’Shea,” he chuckled.

“I could have gotten a gelding and named him ‘Dutch’ since he’s such a horse’s ass,” Sparrow said with venom in her tone. Arthur sighed.

“You ain’t even met Dutch. He’s…he used to be diff’rent,” Arthur explained lamely. There was a long silence as they rode. “Well, that ain’t entirely the truth. I thought for a while maybe he’d changed, that he’d become someone else. I’m seein’ now, in hindsight, that maybe he’s just now showin’ who he really is.” Sparrow looked up sharply, seeing the conflicted look on Arthur’s face. “Time was I’d’a shot a man for sayin’ what I just said,” he continued, voice going quiet, just loud enough to be heard over hoofbeats falling on sand and leaves. “Time was I’d’a never considered leavin’ him.” He looked at Sparrow. “But that’s what I’m plannin’. Been thinkin’ about it for a while now, you know that. I was sore with John for…a very long time. Hated him for leavin’ us. For leavin’ me. He was my little brother, and he just run off. For a damn year. Startin’ to wonder now if that didn’t have more to do with Dutch than with Abigail and Jack,” he murmured, voice dark.

“Startin’ to wonder if maybe my loyalties have been in the wrong place this whole _goddamn_ time. Startin’ to wonder if I maybe just wasted twenty years of my life trying to be good enough for someone don’t deserve it.” Arthur huffed a bitter laugh that held no humor in it whatsoever. “His demands cost me my first love. Cost me a woman I cared about, and my son. Nearly got me hanged more times than I can count. Got friends of mine killed, good friends, mind, not just nobody cowpokes who robbed trains with us for the trill. And he got Hosea killed.” Arthur stopped his rant for a moment, giving a great, raspy sniff before he continued, voice trembling slightly. “That man might as well have been my father, much though Dutch would like to claim that honor for himself,” he ground out, wiping his forehead roughly and pausing to cough and take a drink from his canteen. “He got Jack kidnapped. He got me tortured, more’n once, and it don’t seem to have taken no flesh off his back, neither. He just…expected me to be alright with it. Just allowed it!” Arthur’s voice had grown in volume until he was nearly shouting by the time he got to his last sentence. He stopped, chest heaving as he rode, jaw clenched.

When it appeared Arthur had nothing else to say, Sparrow spoke.

“Family can make us do awful things to ourselves. I came from a good enough family. My parents tried to do the best they could with a bullheaded, outspoken daughter. My father didn’t always make decisions I agreed with, and he and I often butted heads, but he cared what happened to me, always. Not all family is like that. I’ve seen enough to know that, family or not, you are not obligated to sacrifice yourself to anyone who doesn’t deserve it. You are not obligated to help Dutch if he continues to do foolish, dangerous things. You were never obligated to stay, Arthur.”

“We have a code–”

“Oh, to hell with your code,” she interrupted. “Your code is to your people. If you decide that Dutch is no longer ‘your people’ well then your pretty code don’t apply to him anymore, does it?”

Arthur was silent.

“Arthur.”

“I…you’re right. Don’t make it no easier.”

“I imagine not,” Sparrow said, sliding back into her usual, more formal tone, calming herself. She despised Dutch and she’d never even met him. She despised him for what he had done to Arthur. He was just like the consumption, taking and taking and taking, keeping a stranglehold on Arthur for his own selfish ends.

“Hell, why am I tellin’ you all this?” he asked, nose wrinkling in apparent impatience with himself. Much as he did tend to talk about his feelings with Sparrow, he often went grouchy and recalcitrant once he had done so, apparently embarrassed when he shared too much. He had been raised to bottle his feelings up, to ignore his own personal misery. He had been raised, by Dutch anyway, to hate weakness in himself. “Look, can we jus’…talk about somethin’ else?” Arthur half-begged. Sparrow quirked a brow, too stubborn and too good of a friend to let Arthur avoid things that needed airing.

“Alright, what’s your plan with Mrs. Downes?” she prompted.

“Jee-zus, woman,” he griped with a small laugh, “you’re relentless.”

“We don’t have much time, Arthur. If it’s so important to you, then let it be done with.” He nodded, shrugged.

“Last I saw of her, she was at the Van Horn Trading Post, but I imagine she’s living here in Annesburg,” he said as they began to hear the sounds of the mine and the train station through the trees. “I saw her son too. He’s probly workin’ the coalmine,” he said through clenched teeth.

“And?” Sparrow prompted, not unkindly.

“And I can’t never undo what I did to that family,” he said in a haunted tone, “but I can try to ease their sufferin’. That’s the best I kin do. I set aside a bit. What her husband owed and more. It’s enough to get her out of…what she’s gotten into. But look, Sparrow…” Arthur waited until she met his eyes when he reined in his horse to ride side-by-side next to her. “I don’t want you there. When I talk to her. I can’t…I can’t have you seein’ the way she looks at me. Like the monster I am.” Arthur’s blue eyes were pleading. Sparrow sighed and nodded, deciding not to argue that last part, for the moment.

“Alright. I’ll stop by the post office, send off my paintings to Mr. Mason. But you have to promise to stay out of trouble,” she told him as they made their way down the hill that led into the small town.

“You know already I can’t promise that,” he said lamely, missing the humor in her tone amidst his own melancholy thoughts. Arthur looked under the board walk that ran above the train tracks where a pale woman was speaking with three unsavory-looking gentlemen. His features were pulled with anguish and he looked faintly nauseated.

“Arthur.” He looked at her, pulling his gaze away from the very woman they had been talking about.

“I’ll be right here,” Sparrow told him as they pulled up to the hitching post outside the train station. As if to led credence to her statement, a White-throated Sparrow sung from a nearby elm. He nodded, swallowed, still sitting stiffly on Goldie. Sparrow got down from Molasses and hitched her, and still, Arthur sat on his horse, a look of dread and guilt upon his handsome, but drawn, features.

“Arthur?”

“Sorry,” he muttered, climbing down and hitching Goldie. “Jus’…gatherin’ my will. And my courage.”

“You’ve got enough for ten men,” she assured him with a pat on the shoulder. “Now go.”

\---------

Sparrow was worried when Arthur did not return for at least two hours, but when he did walk back into the post office where she was penning a letter of explanation to Albert, he was sporting a blackened eye and sore ribs, as well as bloodied knuckles.

“My god, what on Earth happened to you?”

“’S a long story,” he slurred, sounding tired.

“No doubt, and no doubt you will tell me after we get something for that eye. Sakes alive, Arthur Morgan, can you solve any problem without resorting to fistfights?” He gave her a nasty look, but winced when he tried to frown at her. She softened her tone. “Never mind. I’m sure those beaten deserved beating.”

“Had ta get Downes’ kid outta a scrape, his mom too. They’re taken care of, thank Christ.”

“And you’ve earned a bit of redemption, I suppose?” He scoffed loudly at that.

“Hell, no. I ain’t seekin’ redemption or absolution. I don’t deserve it.”

“Arthur…”

“No,” he said firmly. “I ain’t doin’ it for redemption or absolution," he repeated. "I ain’t trying to redeem my goddamned soul. It’s too late for that, anyway. I’m doin’ it because it is the _right thing to do_.” Sparrow’s eyebrows rose, as did Arthur’s when he realized what he had said, his own growth and acceptance of his sins catching him off guard. He swallowed.

“I think perhaps it’s _not_ too late for your soul, Arthur. At any rate, I’ll finish sending this off and see if we can’t find some ice or a steak for those knuckles and that sore eye.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted, coughing into his fist. “You got your paintin’s all squared away?”

Sparrow picked up a long tube-shaped package labelled “The Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas, Care of Dr. Albert Mason, Department of Natural Sciences” from the bench next to her.

“All ready,” she assured him. “One moment.” Feeling only a little reluctant, she handed over the letter and the tube to the post man, wondering if her work would, in fact, be posthumously published. She supposed it didn’t matter, but she had spent months working on these. She looked back to Arthur and her concerns melted. She had other priorities now. “So,” she asked him as she approached, “once that eye is taken care of, what’s the plan?”

“I gotta go back to camp, check in on things. Make sure that _snake_ Micah ain’t been causin’ anymore problems,” he hissed, his lip curled with disgust.

“Micah? You having more problems with him? Bad enough you have to go back to camp?” she asked, surprised. Arthur scoffed through a coughing fit, clearing his throat roughly.

“Firstly, I am _always_ having problems with that jackanapes,” he muttered. “Secondly, I hafta go back to camp before Dutch sends someone lookin’. As it is he thinks I’m goin’ behind his back, gettin’ real suspicious. I believe he thinks I’m plannin’ his downfall. Guess in a way I am, but I ain’t the one responsible for those damn Pinkertons constantly findin’ us. I suspect Micah may have somethin’ to do with that, but I can’t prove it. Yet.” His face was dark with some unreadable emotion. Sparrow nodded.

“Let me find you some ice for that eye and I’ll rent a hotel room here for while you’re gone,” Sparrow told him in an even tone.

“No.” Sparrow jerked in surprise. Arthur met her eyes. “No. It’s high time I discuss a few things with Dutch. Regarding you. I can’t take you into camp, not with tensions runnin’ high, but I don’t intend to stay there for long, anyway. Figure I’ll grab some ammunition, some fresh clothes…” He shivered suddenly. “And my coat. I’m cold all the damn time here lately,” he complained, rubbing pale hands together. “Anyhow, I want you to wait for me a mile or so outside camp. I’ll tell ya when. Meantime, let’s go. I cannot abide this place any longer,” he told her miserably, looking around the ramshackle town where despair-laden coalminers paced like ghosts that had not been informed they weren’t dead yet. Storm clouds gathered above them and thunder rumbled, making Arthur shiver. When he looked back to her, his face was a mask of pain, shrouded with sadness. “Are you still with me?” he asked, tone going doubtful. Whatever Mrs. Downes had said to him must have shaken him to his core, amidst everything else he had on his mind. Sparrow could see the guilt etched on Arthur’s face, the panic as he calculated how much time he had left, the things he had to do.

“Always,” Sparrow said immediately, taking his hand, his fingers cold in hers.

“Well, alright then,” he rumbled, one corner of his mouth rising slightly at her encouragement. “Look, I…” He scratched the back of his head awkwardly and looked at Sparrow from a face tilted in apparent shame. “I ain’t ‘xactly feelin’ my best, so…would ya mind, ridin’ behind me? Make sure I don’t fall off my damn horse? We kin tie Molly behind.” Sparrow tried to hide her smile. What the big, stubborn outlaw had left unspoken was that what he really wanted, no, _needed_, was comfort. He needed to be embraced. He needed to feel close to someone.

“Of course. Couldn’t have that,” she said, keeping her tone light. Tying Molasses’ reins to the horn of Arthur’s saddle, Sparrow climbed up behind him. She sat as close to him as she could get, her groin to his butt on the big saddle, which had been sized for him before he had lost nearly thirty pounds to the consumption that was slowly eating him alive. There was room enough for the both of them on the seat with only part of Sparrow’s hips spilling off the back onto the bedroll. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but that wasn’t what mattered right now. She slid her arms under his and around his ribs, her fingers able to interlace just above his breastbone over chest muscles that had diminished with illness. He took a deep breath that she could feel vibrating with phlegm beneath her touch, and she felt him suppress a cough.

Arthur brought a hand up to cover Sparrow’s, fingers curling over hers as his other hand used the reins to urge Goldie to turn southward.

“Thank you,” Arthur said softly, turning his head so he could see the side of Sparrow’s face.

“You’re alright, boy,” she responded with a small grin, pressing her cheek to his shoulder in a comforting embrace that he leaned back into.

“I am now,” he told her, and spurred Goldie into action.


	18. A Better Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur brings Sparrow to camp and she suggests something to Dutch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut is coming, I promise, but I did tag this as porn with plot, so plot still has to happen. :D

Arthur had practiced and revised and changed and reordered and second-guessed what he would say to Dutch at least thirty times before he actually made it into camp, tying Goldie at the hitching post and shivering at the cold atmosphere that lingered like a fog over the clearing where the gang was huddled.

“Arthur,” Abigail greeted, pulling her coat closer around her.

“Abigail,” he responded. “Where’s John?”

“Guardin’ the camp on the west side,” she said. Arthur nodded, some small part of him relaxing. At least John was here and not sent off on some fools’ errand that would get him killed. “You okay?” she asked, an odd question coming from the usually critical young woman.

“I reckon I’ll do,” Arthur answered with a small smile. “Dutch around?”

“Skulking in his tent, as usual.”

“Still no sign of Molly?”

“Nope. Haven’t heard hide nor hair.”

“Hmm. Well, you take care of that boy of yours, Abigail. Keep him close, just in case.”

“I will, Arthur. And hey, get yourself some stew before you take off again,” she suggested, brows pulling together. “You’re lookin’ thin.” Arthur nodded and made his way to Dutch’s tent under the critical eyes of the other gang members. They each had varying opinions about their situation with the camp and the Pinkertons and Dutch. Arthur had no doubt some of them thought he was a rat. It hurt, but made little difference. He couldn’t change what was done, just move forward.

“I need ta speak with you,” Arthur said as he approached Dutch, who was carving a withered apple into small pieces and eating them with a look of distaste within his opulent tent. Arthur’s hands were firmly clenched on his belt, his face taut. He glanced at Micah who was hovering nearby like a rabid coyote. “Alone,” Arthur clarified. Micah began to argue, but Dutch held up a weary hand.

“I have had just about enough of the both of you bickering like children. Arthur, whatever needs to be said can be said in front of Micah.” Arthur ground his teeth together, but took a rattling breath to calm himself.

“Please, Dutch.” Dutch’s lip curled and he glared up at Arthur with a look of disgust, his hands firmly gripping his own knees as he leaned forward with intensity.

“Arthur, what, _exactly,_ did you not understand about what I just told you?” Dutch demanded. Arthur sighed.

“Dutch,” his tone was hurt, almost childlike. Dutch’s face softened and, for just a moment, standing there with his shoulders hunched and his shirt bunched up on a too-small frame, Arthur was again a rail-thin teenager with no hope and no prospects, abandoned and alone until Dutch and Hosea took him in.

“Alright,” Dutch said in a beleaguered tone, “fine. But make it quick. Micah, find something else to occupy your time, you are beginning to creep me out anyway.” Micah opened his mouth to argue, but the look he received from Dutch silenced him. “Come here, Arthur. Sit down before you fall down, son. What is it that is so important that we have to discuss it immediately and alone? Hmm?”

“I’m dyin’, Dutch,” Arthur blurted as he sat, for lack of any better way to start. For a moment, Dutch’s face was blank, but then it hardened.

“I know.” Weakness. He despised it. Arthur looked away from Dutch, chest aching. He wondered what Hosea would have said if he were alive for Arthur to tell him. He was pretty sure “I know” would not have been his only response. “We gotta focus now, Arthur. Harder than ever. I still have a plan,” Dutch said, breaking him from his reverie.

“Do you remember when Hosea bought me my hat?” Arthur asked, non-sequitur. Dutch leaned back away from Arthur with a scowl.

“Son, we do not have time to go on a stroll down memory lane,” he griped.

“Saw it there, sittin’ in the window. Brushed leather. Bronzed rope band,” Arthur went on as though he hadn’t been interrupted, his eyes unfocused in remembrance. “Fifteen dollars. More money than I had at the time, certainly. You’d just found me, not a month before. Taken me in. I remember you beggin’ Hosea. Arguin’ with him that I was just the kinda kid you two were lookin’ for, a kid who could help you start your ‘enterprise,’ I believe was the word you used. You saw me starin’ in that window, pinin’ after that damn hat,” Arthur murmured, pulling it from his head and running his hand inside of it fondly. He met Dutch’s eyes. “You told me then that not everyone gets what they want. That the world is hard and cruel and that you hafta take what you’re owed. And while Hosea let you talk my ear off about good n’ evil and the nature of justice, he was countin’ out the bills from his money clip. He went in that store, straight off, and bought it for me, no questions asked, no obligation, no debt attached.

“That’s all I ever wanted from you, Dutch: no debt attached. You’re my family. Like…like a brother and a father in one. And you keep _doubtin’_ me, just because I’m havin’ a hard time. These Pinkertons, and your plan, and all this goddamn death. You keep suspectin’ I ain’t loyal to you no more because I fail to see how your ‘one more,’ ‘one more,’ ‘one more,’ that turns into tragedy after tragedy after tragedy is worth the risk. Dutch…this is not who we are. We have got to find a better way. We’ve got women and children in our gang now. There has to be a way that doesn’t involve more people gettin’ hurt or killed. Ain’t we had enough of death, Dutch?”

Dutch met Arthur’s eyes and there was no softness there at all. Dutch tugged Arthur’s hat from his grip and tossed it out of the tent onto the sandy ground just outside, eyes blazing with venom.

“Don’t you have a woman to get back to?” he asked, voice quiet, but dangerous. Arthur’s brows rose and he cursed himself. After all that practice, all the time spent planning how he was going to ask Dutch to let Sparrow come into the camp with him and he had ruined it all by coming right out with how he felt about how Dutch was running things. Arthur shook his head wearily.

“You really think that’s what this is about? She’s dyin’ too, Dutch. Heart condition. Hell, she could drop dead tomorrow. I’m dyin’, she’s dyin’. I ain’t got nothin’ left to lose, Dutch, but you do. I ain’t got no reason to betray you, but someone here seems to. Consider that. Think on it real serious, Dutch.” Dutch nodded slowly, thinking. He pursed his lips and then met Arthur’s eyes hard.

“Are you still with me, Arthur?”

“I am with you for as long as you’ll see sense, Dutch,” Arthur admitted, gaze steady.

“Uh huh.” Dutch’s fingers drug from his knee to linger on his sidearm. Arthur followed the motion with his eyes, but did not flinch. There was a long moment of Dutch searching Arthur’s face, either for dishonesty or guilt, Arthur wasn’t sure, but he found neither there, so he finally said, “You find me the rat, Arthur, and maybe I’ll believe you’re still with me. _Maybe._ You…you are walkin’ a very…” Dutch held up a quivering finger “….fine line, son.”

“Alright. I’ll figure out who it is, but I’m gonna hafta ruffle some feathers by the time things is through,” Arthur agreed, tilting his head thoughtfully. His ocean blue eyes flicked back to meet Dutch’s fathomless brown ones. “But Dutch, I want to bring my woman into camp, no obligations on her part, just to rest. Please.”

“Absolutely not.” Arthur’s lip curled and he stood, scuffing the front of his jeans off with a frustrated motion as he said,

“Then we’re done here, Dutch.”

“Are you serious, son?” Dutch demanded, his voice cracking in disbelief. Arthur glared, forcing every ounce of fury into his gaze.

“Serious as consumption, Dutch,” he snarked bitterly. Dutch’s chest deflated at that as though Arthur had slapped him. Brows lowering in anger, Dutch tipped his chin up.

“Fine. You can bring her into camp, but you keep her outta trouble. And if more Pinkertons show up thanks to her, I’ll have Micah put a bullet in both of you, are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Arthur said calmly. He stepped outside Dutch’s tent and picked up his hat, brushing the dirt off and dropping it back on his head without another word.

\-----------------------------------

Eyes followed Sparrow as she rode up on Molasses later that afternoon, accompanied by an exhausted-looking Arthur. Charles, at least, had the decency to nod to her, and Javier tipped his hat, though his face looked decidedly unfriendly.

Ever the camp’s voice of reason, Miss Grimshaw approached, holding out a hand and breaking the tension, which had been so thick one could have cut it with a knife. As her hand met Sparrow’s, the gang relaxed and began to approach.

“Susan Grimshaw, dear.”

“Sparrow Callaghan. Very pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, me too. I’ve heard only a bit about you, but if Mr. Morgan saw fit to bring you here, I know you’re a good one. There’s an extra tent if you want it. I know Mr. Morgan snores,” Miss Grimshaw said in a mock conspiratorial voice. Sparrow chuckled.

“Not half as loudly as I do, Miss Grimshaw, but thank you, I’ll be alright. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“We could use some food,” Mr. Pearson answered, approaching. “Simon Pearson. I usually cook for the camp, but with all the moving we’ve had to tighten our belts recently.”

“I see,” Sparrow said. “I reckon I could help with that. I’m a handy shot when I need to be.”

“Well, well, Arthur’s brought a woman into camp, will wonders never cease?” came a raspy voice. Sparrow turned to face the speaker, a lanky young man with steel gray eyes and a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas. Sparrow sniffed.

“From those gashes on your face and that cocky attitude, I’m going to guess you’re John Marston?” John’s eyebrows rose.

“Blunt one, ain’t she?” he commented with an amused look at Arthur, who had gone a bit red about the ears.

“I have something that will help those scars to heal a little better, if you’d like,” Sparrow offered. There was an awkward silence for a moment. “That is, if you, well, I mean…Sorry. I’m a doctor’s daughter, I sometimes forget not everyone likes to be meddled with.” Abigail walked up.

“He would love that, Miss…?”

“Callaghan. Sparrow Callaghan.”

“Abigail Roberts. And this is my boy, Jack. Say ‘hello,’ Jack.”

“Hello,” Jack responded softly, hiding his face in his mother’s skirts.

Pleasantries were made about the camp, all those gathered meeting and chatting with Sparrow, all except for Micah, who Sparrow already knew and did not like. He gave her a nasty look which she returned ten-fold before stepping up to Dutch’s tent. The canvas had been rolled down, but she could hear someone moving around inside. She knocked softly on one of the big tent poles.

“What part of ‘I do not wish to be disturbed’ do you nincompoops fail to understand?!” demanded a hoarse voice from inside.

“My apologies, Mr. Van der Linde, I will come back later,” she said, trying to keep her tone even and not irritated, though she rolled her eyes so hard she feared she would strain a muscle. A moment later, the canvas was pulled back. Not waiting for him to speak, Sparrow held out a little glass bottle. “Arthur tells me you’ve been having some headaches of late. Thought perhaps you’d appreciate a tonic for it. Sparrow. Sparrow Callaghan.” Dutch surveyed her for a long moment, looking for all the world like a rattlesnake preparing to strike its prey. He relaxed finally, taking the tonic and looking at the handwritten label.

“Is this part of Arthur’s plan to poison me?” he asked in a skeptical tone.

“Nonsense. If Arthur wanted you dead, you would be already.” Dutch looked up at her sharply. “It’s none of my business–”

“You’re right it _is_ none of your –” Dutch began to cut her off, but she kept talking.

“– but Arthur loves you like a father. He would never intentionally do anything to hurt you. Can the same be said for you of him?” Dutch was silent for a long moment, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair line in shock. Curiosity piqued, he huffed a small laugh and indicated for her to enter his tent. He waited for her to take a seat and poured her a glass of sherry before pouring himself one as well.

“You remind me of Hosea, Miss Callaghan,” he said after taking a sip and staring at her for a long moment. “You won’t have met him, of course, so you’ll have to take my word that that is intended, mostly, as a compliment.”

Over the course of the next hour or so, Sparrow began to understand why Arthur loved and followed this man. Dutch was charismatic, smart and remarkably good at getting one to believe what he did. He had, however, a manic side to him that concerned Sparrow. There was a light in his eyes that flashed between dangerous and deranged as he discussed the finer points of his philosophy and his plan, stopping frequently to grill her about her own opinions. While she certainly had no love for oil barons or the army, Dutch’s plan to set his enemies against one another sounded more like a death wish and a sure-fire way to get all of his enemies after him at once.

“May I present another option to you, Mr. Van der Linde?” Sparrow asked once he had ranted about his hatred for Leviticus Cornwall and the U.S. government. “Instead of drawing yet more attention to yourself, or bringing the wrath of the Army down on the already downtrodden Wapiti people, why not strike Mr. Cornwall where it really hurts?” Dutch leaned forward intently.

“Do tell, Miss Callaghan.” She smirked.

“I could hurt his company with just a few forged documents. Remove interest in his investments by suggesting that perhaps he is ill, or that his company has illegally purchased property owned, not by Indians, but good hard-working Americans who didn’t deserve to be cheated by a no-good oil and coal company,” Sparrow suggested with a wry look. It infuriated her how little people cared about the plight of the Native Americans, but there was nothing to be done for it, so she might as well use public opinion to their advantage. “A few rumors like that, and he’ll be hemorrhaging money. It won’t destroy him, of course, but it will certainly distract him. Distract him long enough for you to get your people and leave.”

“And you could make these forgeries?” he asked critically. Sparrow smirked.

“I have put more than one overzealous, handsy professor in his place with a few well-placed printed words. I can do the same to Mr. Cornwall. And I’ll do it for you. As a show of good faith.”

“‘Good faith’?” he chuckled. “We could use more of that around here. Alright, I’ll give you a chance to try, Miss Callaghan. _Try_. But if it doesn’t work–”

“Then we’ll do things your way. With guns blazing and people dying,” she said dryly. Dutch rubbed his chin with a thumb.

“There is still the issue of money, Miss Callaghan. We need cash. A lot of it.” Sparrow's eyes glittered in the light of the sun suffusing the canvas of Dutch’s tent. She didn’t want to show all her cards, not yet.

“One step at a time, Mr. Van der Linde. Like any _good_ plan.”

“Hmm,” Dutch hummed, a noise of slight disapproval, but he studied her with his brows pulled together slightly before he finally nodded and smirked. “I truly cannot decide if I like you or hate you, Miss Callaghan,” Dutch responded, expression sliding to one of supreme annoyance, but he did look more cheerful than he had when he had first opened his tent for her.

“Funny. I feel quite the same. I’ll leave you to it, then, Mr. Van der Linde.”

“Makin’ yerself a workin’ member of the gang already, huh?” Micah drawled from where he was leaning just outside of Dutch’s tent. He gave Sparrow a lascivious look up and down, despite the fact that she was wearing her normal jeans and button-up shirt attire. “There are several ‘jobs’ that need doin’ if you’re looking to keep yourself occupied,” he told her suggestively, spitting a stream of tobacco juice just in front of her feet. She turned to him with a scowl.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t speak horse’s ass, Mr. Bell, may I suggest you try one of the stables for a translator?”

“That mouth of yours is gonna get you killed one day, bitch,” he called after her as she turned and walked away. She smirked, calling over her shoulder,

“The same could be said of you, Mr. Bell. Hopefully sooner than later.”


	19. It Beats for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Sparrow make love in his tent in camp. That's it. That's the entire plot of this chapter. You're welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: voyeuristic behavior  
CW: Oral sex  
CW: Fingering  
CW: Vaginal sex  
CW: Anal fingering

“He don’t trust ya,” Arthur murmured when he caught Dutch staring over at Sparrow that evening, smoking a cigarillo and keeping to himself. “But he likes ya. I can tell.”

“Not sure I want to be liked by him,” Sparrow responded, but she raised a friendly hand toward Dutch that was answered by a terse nod. “Do you think he can be still be persuaded to be reasonable? Or is he a lost cause?”

“Well, far’s I’m concerned, nobody’s a lost cause, but I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with him with Micah whisperin’ nonsense in his ear. Anyway. We’ll see what happens,” Arthur told her, pulling her up onto his lap where he sat on a log by the fireside as the sun began to set. Spirits were higher in the camp than they had been in days owing to the fact that Sparrow and Arthur had shot several rabbits and helped Pearson prepare a filling stew. Those gathered were chitchatting over the food, less on edge than they had been. After he had eaten, Javier pulled out his guitar, joining Arthur and Sparrow at the fire, though he sat across from them, not next to them. He sang soft songs in Spanish, fingers moving gracefully over the catgut strings, making music flow airily through the camp, lightening the mood even further.

To the surprise of the gathered, Arthur included, Sparrow had quite the singing voice, pure and strong like the voice of her namesake. She persuaded a beleaguered Javier to play “Clementine” and then “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” and before long, most everyone had relaxed and was singing along. Dutch did not join the group, but Sparrow could see him tapping his foot in time to the music as he poured over papers and maps just inside his tent. Drinks began to be passed around and, though the stocks were low, the gang members happily shared, growing giddy and talkative as liquor and beer flowed easily down parched throats. Sadie Adler split half a bottle of rye whiskey with Sparrow, who liked her almost instantly. The two joked and guffawed over the various reactions they got from wearing pants, bonding over a shared disinterest in impractical feminine clothing. Arthur had a bottle of whiskey to himself, and he relaxed as his buzz grew, occasionally singing along, sometimes fumbling the lyrics and laughing at himself, his cheeks growing red and cheery with drink and companionship.

As the evening grew long and dusk fell into night, Sparrow sang a final song. Only Charles, Javier, Sadie and Arthur were still gathered around the fire.

_ “From this valley they say you are leaving,”_ she crooned softly, hanging onto Arthur’s neck where he held her in his lap. _“We shall miss your bright eyes and sweet smile __♪ For you take with you all of the sunshine __♪ That has brightened our pathway a while __♪ Then come sit by my side if you love me,”_ she stroked a strand of hair over his ear as he gazed up at her with adoration in his slightly out-of-focus eyes, _“Do not hasten to bid me adieu __♪ Just remember the Red River Valley __♪ And the artist that's loved you so true,”_ Sparrow smiled when she changed the lyrics slightly for Arthur’s benefit, _“For a long time, my darlin', I've waited __♪ For the sweet words you never would say __♪ Now at last all my fond hopes have vanished __♪ For they say that you're going away,”_ her voiced cracked suddenly and she gave a small self-deprecating laugh as tears gathered in her eyes, but she forced herself to continue softly singing. _“Then come sit by my side if you love me __♪ Do not hasten to bid me adieu __♪ Just remember the Red River Valley And the artist that's loved you so true.”_

“Please don’t cry, darlin’, my heart cain’t take it,” he mumbled, taking one of her hands and rubbing the inside of her palm comfortingly with his calloused thumb.

“_Your _heart?” she joked through tears that she wiped away. “What about mine?” He chuckled sadly and pulled her head so that their foreheads bumped together.

“You ain’t gotta worry about never hearin’ ‘sweet words’ from me,” he told her, “’Cause I love ya, darlin’. I will for the rest of my life,” he promised, and she knew that he meant it, really meant it, whether he lived another week or a lifetime, he meant it. Arthur pulled her hard against him, tugging at her clothing, one hand tangling in her hair as though he needed to bind her there for reassurance of his own. The fire had died almost completely down, so they were shrouded in darkness.

“I love you too, Arthur Morgan,” she whispered. “Let me show you how much.” A hand slid down his chest, over his belly and perched atop his crotch, massaging the soft, heavy flesh that could be felt through the material of his jeans. He grunted in response, widening his legs to give her better access. Knowing when to take a hint, Charles and Sadie wandered off somewhere, followed shortly by Javier, who gave a loud yawn before retreating to his pallet.

“Mebbe we should take this back to my tent,” Arthur purred hazily, giving a laugh that was half-cough. Sparrow’s fingers tightened around the bulge she could feel growing and hardening, kneading and massaging it until a small whine escaped Arthur’s lips. He bit his lower lip, cheeks flushing in the red light of the nearly-dead fire. “Sweetheart,” but she interrupted him by unbuttoning his jeans and then his soft union suit, reaching her hand inside to the warmth of his inner thighs, scratching lightly with her fingernails until she took his cock in her hand and guided it outside his clothing where it jutted, hard and red despite the cool night air. Sinking to her knees, she took the head into her mouth, sucking it until his hand urgently caught at her shoulder. Grinning around the mouthful, Sparrow ran her mouth down his length, using her tongue to run along the vein that ran down the underside of his cock to his balls.

Sparrow hummed as she pulled her mouth back up, sucking and licking in equal measures, keeping a steady rhythm with both mouth and hands, alternating between rolling his balls in her palm and grasping his base and sliding the slick skin up and down. Too tempted by her soft eyes meeting his own, Arthur put his hand on the back of her head, pushing her down and guiding her movements, his hips occasionally thrusting up to jab himself into her throat.

“Darlin’, oh Jesus, oh Christ,” he muttered as she continued her ministrations, his hips squirming. She could taste salty slick precum on her tongue and pulled off him, watching in fascination for a moment as the cloudy liquid spurted in small, unpredictable gobs from the slit at the head of his cock. In a moment, Arthur’s hands were in her hair, tugging her up into a rough kiss. Sparrow pressed her tongue between his lips and lapped at his teeth and tongue, letting him taste himself on her. He made a growl in his throat as he stood, his erection jutting comically upward so that anyone peeking out of their tent would have seen him in all his glory. He blushed, holding one hand over himself and using the other to grab Sparrow’s hand. “Tent,” he ordered. “Now.”

Arthur half-drug her to his tent, haphazardly untying the strings that held the canvas sides up. They fell and flapped in the gentle breeze, but he ignored all that, instead tugging his jeans down to pile around his boots. He unbuttoned his union suit more so that his entire crotch was revealed. Grinning at his impatience, Sparrow went to her knees, pulling him closer and engulfing his cock in her warm mouth again. Arthur’s fingers tangled in her hair, massaging her scalp as she pleasured him with her mouth, her hands sliding up into his union suit and around his hips to grab the hard muscles of his ass. She had wetted a finger with her tongue and was now gently teasing at his entrance, making him grunt as she sought entrance. Torn between sinking back or pressing forward, Arthur’s body gave a small twitch and a sound of pleasure spilled from his mouth as Sparrow gently massaged the puckered skin of his entrance.

Gasping a breath and forcing himself to relax, Arthur canted back and let her finger slide inside him, teasing at a point of intense sensation within him that made his toes curl in his wool socks.

“Darlin’,” he rasped, holding her head gently and rocking a bit, “I wanna…” She used her free hand to press his hips toward her, giving him permission to set his own pace and to take full control. Careful not to choke her, Arthur began to jut his hips forward and backward, taking his pleasure within her mouth, his head thrown back in ecstasy at the warmth and tightness of the suction she was providing with lips and tongue, her hand kneading at the muscles of his ass and the finger buried within him stroking relentless sparks of pleasure up and down his spine. “Oh Jesus,” he muttered, stopping himself as he felt the flutterings of an orgasm working its way up from his toes. He fisted his fingers in Sparrow’s hair to stop her from trying to move, and gasped a sound of desperation as her finger brushed over his prostate again. “Come here,” he directed, pushing her back so that she was forced to remove her finger and her grip on him. She grabbed a cloth and wiped her hand delicately, waiting for his next move.

Arthur stripped her underwear and pants from her hips, directing her to lie back on his cot. Spreading her legs, he buried his face there, lapping and sucking at soft flesh, his rough fingers lightly pressing against her clit. She let out a breathy moan that she muffled in the crook of her arm. Arthur’s fingers sunk into her and she felt herself clench around them, grinding against him with gusto as he crooked his fingers, a devilish smile just visible by starlight.

“Give yerself over,” he encouraged. “Let it happen, darlin’, I want to feel you.” That was all it took, those purred orders sent her hurtling over the edge of oblivion and she came hard, her walls clamping down onto his fingers just as he took her clit into his mouth and sucked, laving his tongue across sensitive flesh.

“Oh Arthur!” she blurted, unable to stop the exclamation. She blushed, but met his eyes in the near darkness.

“Say my name again,” he ordered, pulling his fingers away and teasing at her instead with his cock, sliding the head against her slick with professional movements of his hips that made the cot creak.

“Arthur,” she begged softly.

“Louder,” he murmured in her ear, and she could smell the whiskey on his breath, knew he was just buzzed enough not to care what anyone else in camp thought of his activities. When Sparrow did not obey immediately, Arthur growled, biting and sucking at her neck. “I said ‘louder,’” he insisted, ramming into her with a single slick thrust of his hips.

“Arthur!” she keened.

“Keep it down over there!” John griped nastily.

“You shut the hell up, John!” Arthur hollered while Sparrow fought back a laugh. Arthur grinned, collapsing some of his weight on her, pinning her to the bed. “Now, where were we?”

“Right here,” she whispered, kissing the side of his jaw.

“Naw, I think we were right about here,” he murmured, unbuttoning her blouse and pushing her brassiere out of the way so he could take a nipple into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth before kissing away with slight sting. He pressed kisses all across her breasts, sucking and biting gently as he worked his way over the tender flesh, all while thrusting in and out of her with slow, deliberate movements that had her gasping for breath.

“Arthur,” she whispered, fingers grasping at his buttocks through the material of his underwear, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” she breathed, and he matched the speed of her cries with the motions of his hips. Cupping her face in his hand, he drug his thumb across her lower lip, hissing with desire as she engulfed it in her mouth.

“Sparrow,” he murmured as his movements slowed, the press of his hips into hers dulling to lazy rolls.

“We are wearing entirely too much clothing,” she whispered, wiping a stray strand of hair out of his face. He stood, pulling out of her just long enough to shuck his boots, pants, shirt and union suit off. She snorted with amusement when she saw he hadn’t bothered to remove his wool socks, but she said nothing, instead preoccupying herself with shoving her shirt and bra the rest of the way off, kicking her own boots, pants and socks off with indolent kicks that launched her clothing about the inside of the tent, which still fluttered open occasionally with the wind. She giggled when he shivered in the cold, his erection bobbing. “Come back to me, Mr. Morgan,” Sparrow called to him, holding up a hand. He smirked and started to step forward, but stopped, coughing roughly, gasping hard for breath, waving her away when she sat up with concern. He leaned forward, catching his breath with his hands on his knees.

Looking to her sheepishly, Arthur took another deep breath, found his canteen and swallowed a mouthful of water and sat on the bed next to her.

“I need a minute,” he admitted. Sparrow rubbed his back with gentle hands.

“However long you need. I’ll be here.” Sufficiently rested after a few more deep breaths, Arthur turned back to her, kissing her deeply, his hand slotting along the side of her face, his thumb stroking her ear.

“I love you,” he told her again, eyes intense in the near-darkness of the tent. He said it in a tone that suggested that he thought he might not get to say it again, and it scared her.

“And I love you,” she whispered, voice sure and movements tender. Sparrow pushed Arthur so he was lying on his back on the cot before she sank down onto him. Putting a hand just over his heart, she rode him up and down, letting his hands grasp her waist, allowing him to just lie back and relax as she took over. She felt her heart beating hard, but for once she didn’t let herself dwell on it, just forced herself into the moment, knowing that neither heaven nor earth nor a bad heart could come between her and the man she loved in this moment of intimacy. He tugged her down so they were chest to chest as she slid herself up and down along his cock, sighing as she orgasmed, her climaxes tightening her around him in a succession of ecstatic sensations.

After only a few more minutes, Arthur could take inaction no longer, and he began to roll his hips upwards, meeting the ebb and flow of her own movements and at last they fell into one another, foreheads bumping, warm air shared between them as they breathed hard, him spilling inside her with clenched teeth and a harsh grunt, her tightening around him with a cry of pleasure.

They cleaned themselves up with one of the soft rags Arthur had in his footlocker and cuddled together on the cot.

“Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever happens with your plan, or Dutch’s, I’ll die happy knowing how my name sounds on your lips when I’m pleasurin’ you,” Arthur told her, holding her close.

“And I’ll die happy knowing what ‘I love you’ sounds like on yours.” Arthur put his hand over her heart, feeling it beat.

“Your heart alright?” he asked her, brow furrowing.

“So far. And as long as it still beats, it beats for you,” she promised.


	20. One Step at a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch puts Sparrow to the test.

Morning dawned with a cacophony of birdsong, but that was not what woke Arthur and Sparrow. It was, instead, the grating buzz of Dutch’s voice that roused them from their stupor where they had fallen asleep on Arthur’s cot, bare naked and covered with nothing but a wool blanket within the flaps of his tent.

“Arthur, Miss Callaghan. Get your gear,” Dutch demanded, slapping one of the tent flaps back with an abrupt jerk of his arm. Blushing, Sparrow snatched the blanket up to cover her chest, but that exposed Arthur’s pale white backside instead. Karen whooped at the view and Arthur cursed, grabbing his underwear from the ground and yanking the tent flap from Dutch’s hand as he clambered off their shared cot.

“Some privacy, Dutch? Jesus!”

“Get a move on! We’re going into town.”

“Who’s going into town?” Arthur asked groggily, grinding his fists into his eyes to clear the haze of sleep.

“Me, Sadie, you and Miss Callaghan are going, Arthur.” Yawning with a deep inhalation of breath, Arthur choked back a cough and pulled his clothing on, Sparrow doing the same, though she was distracted by pinching Arthur’s ass and attempting to knock him over as he tugged his pants on for the sheer fun of it. He snatched her wrists finally, planting a kiss on her nose and grinning at her. “You best knock it off, or I’m gonna have to spank you later,” he whispered.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” she taunted, nipping his ear as she buttoned her shirt.

“Dutch, we talked about Sparrow comin’ here. It was to rest,” he griped, pulling his suspenders over his shoulders. From outside, Dutch scoffed.

“She’s going to have to prove her worth here if she’s gonna stay here, son,” Dutch hollered. “Are you just about done putting clothing on, Arthur?”

“Goddamnit, Dutch,” Arthur started, tugging his boots on and stepping out of the tent with Sparrow close behind him. “Sparrow don’t need to be runnin’ gang errands with us.”

“I will not budge on this, Arthur, I will not change my mind. She is going, and that is final.” Dutch glowered at Arthur imperiously, making it clear he would not tolerate any argument.

“Alright, fine,” Arthur snapped, sauntering to the fire and pouring himself a cup of day-old coffee, sipping it with a grimace. “But what the hell are we doin’?”

Dutch’s face lit up, his smile showing teeth and true, honest happiness for the first time in weeks.

“Bill brought word from Trelawney in Saint Denis this morning,” he purred, eyes glittering with excitement. “Today is a great day, Arthur. Today is the day they are going to hang Colm O’Driscoll.” Arthur’s eyebrows flew up and he scoffed.

“The hell you say.”

“Either they hang him or I shoot him,” Sadie told him, walking up and tightening her gunbelt after waving to Sparrow.

“Oh, they are gonna hang him,” Dutch growled, voice going dark with malice and promise.

“That boy’s been on the gallows more than most,” Arthur said skeptically, running a hand through unruly brown-blonde hair that was sticking up every which way. “I wouldn’t count anything until his neck’s broke.”

“Well, nor would I…which is why, despite us bein’ wanted men, we’re gonna attend the event ourselves.”

“And follow him onto the scaffold?!” Arthur exclaimed with a look of horror.

“Well, let’s hope not, but if I could see that son-of-a-bitch breathe his last, I think I’d die a happy man. We are gonna disguise ourselves. Trelawney will be meeting us at a bar just outside the event with police uniforms, which is why, Arthur, I need you to get yourself in gear, son.” Arthur scowled.

“We’re gonna disguise ourselves? As p’lice?”

“Well, not Mrs. Adler and Miss Callaghan. They will be our backup, should be need them. Now come on, we haven’t got all day, Arthur. Miss Callaghan, you will need this,” he said, handing her a very nice six-shooter that she took gratefully, spinning the cylinder. “I trust you know how to use it.” She nodded and shoved it into her holster, removing her old pistol, which was in bad need of service.

“Are you _really_ dragging Sparrow into this, Dutch?” Arthur questioned, frustration tinging his words. Dutch’s head whipped to stare at Arthur and he stepped toward him threateningly.

“Are you really questioning me _again_ when I’ve just done you a favor letting you bring her here, son?” The two stared at one another until Arthur finally looked away.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

\--------------------

They rode their horses hard and took no breaks. This event was too important to miss. Arthur stayed silent, only occasionally casting worried glances Sparrow’s way. She tried her best to look reassuring whenever her eyes caught his. At least Dutch was giving her an opportunity to prove herself rather than locking her away in the camp and preventing her from leaving. They met a nervous-looking Mr. Trelawney in a seedy little bar in Saint Denis after their several hour ride. Arthur wrinkled his nose at the police uniform he was forced to pull on, much to both Dutch and Sparrow’s amusement.

“I do hope you like the color,” Dutch told Sparrow in a mocking tone as he handed her a grass green dress and a red felt hat adorned with pheasant feathers. Sadie he offered a golden dress with a brown hat covered in Great Egret feathers. The women both looked at each other with annoyance, but Sadie shrugged.

“All ready?” Dutch asked urgently after they had pulled on their disguises.

“Let’s jest get this over with,” Arthur answered. They stepped out of the back door of the seedy establishment and into an alley. “Well, don’t we just look the part,” he said in a beleaguered tone.

“We’ll cut through this alley to get to the gallows,” Dutch said, ignoring Arthur’s commentary. “We keep our weapons holstered, our disguises on, and our wits about us,” he ordered with a stern glance at Sparrow and Arthur.

“Mrs. Adler, Miss Sparrow, might I say, being fancy women of Saint Denis suits the two of you,” Arthur commented shyly. Sparrow chuckled.

“I far prefer field clothing. We both know what happened the last time I wore a dress.”

“Well. You look lovely,” Arthur grumbled.

“I’d dress up like the Queen of Sheba if it meant seeing that son-of-a-bitch swing,” Sadie told Arthur fiercely. He sighed, obviously uncomfortable with this entire arrangement.

“Colm hung me up, nearly butchered me. That don’t mean I’m comfortable in this…woolen coat,” Arthur muttered, picking lint off his sleeve. Sparrow put a hand on his arm to steady him as his eyes widened a bit with anxiety, deepening the lines in his face.

“You made it out of that predicament as I remember, Mr. Morgan. My husband weren’t so lucky,” Sadie gently reminded him. Arthur hummed in response and opened his mouth to speak but Dutch interrupted.

“You lost your husband. I lost my darling Annabelle. That poor boy Kieran. Arthur was nearly taken from us. We’ve all lost something because of Colm. And that is why we will shepherd him to eternity.”

“Amen to that,” Sadie said, tone dripping with vehemence.

“Now keep those fingers off those triggers, ‘cause we will need cool heads and calm dispositions to see this done.” Arthur’s lip curled.

“Heh, practice what you preach, brother,” the thin outlaw retorted.

“Whatever do you mean?” Dutch asked testily.

“Are you gonna keep your cool? Really? When you seem to lose it, oh so often, now,” Arthur taunted. Sparrow grabbed his arm again, but he shook it off.

“This doubting and questioning of yours…I miss the old Arthur,” griped Dutch.

“Don’t we all?” Arthur snapped, his meaning clear when he suppressed a cough. Walking behind him now, Sparrow could see Arthur’s shoulders stiffen, saw his fists clench within his borrowed uniform gloves.

“Alright, that’s enough, Arthur,” Sparrow said quietly as Sadie opened her mouth to say the same. He glared at her over his shoulder. “Arthur, please. This is a conversation for another time. Mr. Van der Linde, you’ve bought us here to do a job, so let’s all just…get along, if only temporarily.” Dutch snorted and Arthur growled something under his breath, but they ceased their bickering.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. I like her, Arthur,” Sadie told him, flipping her hair out of her face as they approached the gathered crowd. “Alright boys, are we all clear on the plan?” They made various noises of confirmation. “Good. Come on, we got a hangin’ to witness.”

“Look here. Don’t the public _love_ an execution?” Dutch remarked dryly seeing how many people had gathered at the gallows. “Alright, now, you see that pair of assholes?” Dutch asked, tilting his head toward a rowdy pair of gentlemen wearing Kelly green neckerchiefs.

“Shoar.”

“They’re Colm’s boys.”

“Yes, I think so,” Arthur agreed as one of them turned and pointed at something above and behind them. Arthur scanned the buildings, frowning.

“What a surprise,” Dutch scowled, but he lightened, his expression sinking into one of satisfaction. “I’m glad we’re here. What are they pointing at?”

“I dunno. But I’m gonna find out,” Arthur purred, his hand going to his gun to assure himself it was there, and ready.

“Oh, here comes somebody,” Dutch whispered urgently, tilting his head so his policeman’s cap shrouded his face. “Stay here,” Dutch told Sadie and Sparrow.

“Don’t do nothin’,” Arthur urged Sadie before he glanced to Sparrow. “I’m going to go see what card Colm’s got up his sleeve and deal with it.” Dutch followed him, leaving Sadie and Sparrow to keep watch on the crowd, and on Colm.

“Come on, honey,” Sadie said, tugging Sparrow by the arm. “I want a closer look.”

“I never met this bastard, but I saw what he did to Arthur. I didn’t lose Arthur like you lost your husband, but still. It’s a fine day for a puppet show,” Sparrow smirked, winning a light chuckle from Sadie as they wormed their way into the crowd just behind the two O’Driscolls.

“Fine citizens of Saint Denis,” called the constable. “For as long as any of us can remember, it is justice that separates us from barbary. Yet justice itself can at times be barbaric. For sometimes a man is so savage, the only way to deal with him is by savagery. Colm O’Driscoll is one such man. He has murdered, tortured, robbed, stolen, raped and abused for a decade across five states. Seemingly with impunity. Today, justice catches up with him.”

“Whew-hoo! As well you may. I been a bad man,” Colm laughed from where he stood, a noose pulled securely around his neck, hands tied behind his back.

“Silence!”

“These charges–” Colm started to object, but a policeman cut him off with a cloth gag.

“This is not a court where you shall be tried. This is a place where your sentence is to be carried out and your sentence, Colm O’Driscoll, is that you are to be hanged by the neck until you are dead.” Dutch slipped up behind Sadie and Sparrow, nodding. In an instant, the women had each snatched an O’Driscoll and had a weapon held to their throat. Sparrow swallowed, knowing that this was all a test. A test she had to pass. Dutch gave her a pleased nod when he saw the tip of her knife pressing tightly to the O’Driscoll’s trachea. “This is not a task we take lightly,” the constable continued. Before them, Colm stared up at the building where his men had been pointing, eyes filling with panic. He gasped for air around the gag, thrashing in place, but the police officer held him steady as the constable continued talking. “It is not a task we enjoy, but it is a task we must carry out if our civilization is to prosper. Gentlemen, are we ready? Colm O’Driscoll, may God, in his infinite wisdom, have mercy upon your soul. Whenever you are ready,” he prompted.

The executioner pulled the lever that dropped Colm O’Driscoll to a kicking, grunting death at the end of the rope.

“Now you know how it feels to watch someone you love die,” Sadie hissed to her captive O’Driscoll. Sparrow heard the hatred in Sadie’s voice, the pain. Looking over, she shook her head, sensing a build to violence.

“No. No, Sadie. Now is not the time.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about? They ruined my life!” she yelled, drawing stares.

“Shiiit,” Sparrow growled as Sadie slit the throat of the O’Driscoll. Forcing herself not to think about it, she jabbed her blade into her prisoner’s neck, wincing as warm blood and air gushed over her hand. Chaos reigned king as Dutch called for Arthur’s assistance from where he had perched himself atop the roof of the building where Colm’s savior was supposed to be. Sparrow spared him a glance, relieved to see him still in one piece and even more relieved to see him offering suppressing fire. Civilians screamed and darted away as more O’Driscolls poured toward them. Pulling her sidearm, Sparrow forced herself to be distant, forced herself to be clinical, as she had been when she saved Arthur from the Legara gang, as she had been when she threatened to kill the bounty hunter Brenham’s young son. Now was not the time for emotion. Now was, yet again, the time for action.

An O’Driscoll raised his rifle, aiming for Dutch. Dutch’s gun jammed and he swore, but Sparrow made quick work of the man with a shot through his eye.

“Thank you, young lady,” Dutch called, puffing out a relieved breath. “There, that wagon! Let’s go!” They scrambled aboard, Dutch taking the reins. He waved to Arthur to scram and whipped the horses into action.

“We’re leaving him?” Sparrow demanded as the wagon rolled forward in the turmoil, carrying them out of town.

“Arthur can take care of himself, Miss Callaghan. And evidently, so can you. Well, done, goddamned well done! I’ll get us out of town and you can circle back around for the horses. And for Arthur,” he added as an afterthought, but his tone was friendlier than it had been. He gave her an appraising look. “I want to talk more about that plan of yours back at camp.”

“Thank you, Mr. Van der Linde.” He scoffed.

“Don’t thank me yet, miss. Don’t thank me yet.”

\--------------------------

Sparrow slipped back into Saint Denis in her normal clothing, searching shops and back alleys for Arthur. There was a large park nearby, and she could hear birds singing cheerily amidst the branches of the huge oak and pecan trees. The soothing sounds drew her toward the park, unable to resist the appeal of birdwatching, at least for a while. Her chest was aching and she was dead-tired from the afternoon’s ordeal so she found a park bench and sat, taking a heavy breath. Afternoon turned to evening, and evening turned to night as she rested, watching not only the birds, but the people, trolleys and wagons that passed by, keeping an eye out for a familiar face.

“Where are you, Arthur?” she wondered aloud. Knowing she couldn’t sleep on the bench all night, she stood, stretched, and found a nearby map along the outer wall of the town square. There was a hotel listed just a block away.

Taking her time, Sparrow made her way to the jaunty establishment, which also served as a card hall and saloon. Bright lights and a cacophony of voices greeted her as she stepped inside and saw him. His cheeks were bright with drink and he smiled widely when he saw her, his expression of joy making her go weak in the knees.

“About time you got around to findin’ me, darlin’,” Arthur purred as she dashed up to him.

“Are you okay?” Sparrow breathed, hugging him tightly and then pulling away so she could survey his face.

“I’ll do. That was something, huh? Dutch say anything?”

“Just that he would like to discuss my plan more when I get back to camp. He didn’t say much beyond that. I think he’s just amazed y’all finally got O’Driscoll’s goat.”

“I know I am. Still, even if we did see the bastard hang okay, the whole thing ain’t gonna save us. Dutch has still got this idea about robbing Army payroll and I…I don’t know if I can stop him. Even with your plan, I jest…I dunno,” Arthur sighed.

“Regardless, we’ll see it through,” she promised, taking his hand. “Come on, let me buy you a drink, cowboy. We can head back to camp in the morning.” Arthur gratefully took a whiskey, knocking it back with a hiss. He surveyed her for a moment, covering her hand with one of his.

“Do you really think we can fix this? Or is it too late for us?” he murmured, gaze going distant where he sat on his barstool.

“We’ve gotta try, Arthur. The way you talk about John and his family...the way you look at Charles. Hell, even the way you argue with Dutch. You care about those people. Deeply. You’ve lost enough, Arthur. You deserve some peace…before we go.” He swallowed hard and she put her hand on his knee. “One step at a time, though,” she murmured, standing on tiptoes so she could kiss his cheek. Arthur huffed a laugh, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“What’s the next step then?” he asked. Sparrow’s eyes glittered in the bright lights of the saloon’s chandeliers and her gaze darted over his lean form appreciatively.

“I rent us a room.”


	21. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow pitches her plan to Dutch and the gang works together to make sure it goes off without a hitch.

Having returned to camp from Saint Denis with Arthur, Sparrow spent the next two days studying and writing and rewriting forged documents regarding Leviticus Cornwall. Her plan was now ready to enact. She entered Dutch’s tent, bearing the gift of fresh-brewed coffee and a fine cigar to butter him up. Dutch looked over her notes skeptically, nose wrinkling at a few points, but a subtle tick around his lips betrayed him. He was impressed. Rubbing his chin and meeting Sparrow’s gaze with a challenging look, the gang leader said,

“You’re sure this is going to work, young lady?” Bristling at the condescension, Sparrow opened her mouth to make a smart assed comment, but she knew flying off the handle would do her no good.

“I’m sure, Mr. Van der Linde. This kind of accusation won’t be taken lightly, so we’ll need to have backups in place.”

“No doubt,” he murmured. “May I ask how you’ve come by this…course of action, Miss Callaghan?”

“Call it a gut feeling,” she told him. “Call it instinct. Either way, it will work, or it won’t.”

“Hmm. And what if your predictions are incorrect? What then?”

“How about we cross that bridge when we come to it, Mr. Van der Linde?” He thought for a moment, nodded finally.

“Alright. But I don’t like this. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Neither do I, but what choices do you have available?” she asked him.

“Not many,” he snapped, “But why should I trust you? _That’s_ the real question.” Sparrow smiled sadly.

“Would it be enough to say ‘because Arthur does?’” Dutch’s gaze avoided hers and he rubbed at his chin.

“It used to be. For now, we’ll see what happens.”

\------------------------------

The morning of the plan’s execution dawned bright, and surprisingly cheery. Coffee was made by Charles and most everyone was in good spirits, excited for an opportunity for many of them to get out of camp. The only annoyance was Micah, who had ridden back into camp late the previous day in a singularly nasty disposition. He had picked a fight with John when he got in and they both sported bloodied lips and bruised jaws. Nevertheless, Sparrow had a good feeling about the day, and the plan. Dutch, as usual, still had plenty of things to say or, at least, to rant about.

“And just where exactly do you intend to have us go after this plan of yours, Miss Callaghan? Tallahassee? London? The Sahara?” Dutch demanded, drawing each syllable of “Sahara” out in a ridiculous parody. “We…we are cash _short!”_ he hollered, frustrated. Sparrow nodded, clenching her jaw to bite back an irritated response. She could see insanity looming back in Dutch’s eyes and she could see Micah behind him practically slobbering like a hungry wolf, fueled as he was by conflict.

“Arthur, Charles and I are working on that, Mr. Van der Linde–”

“Dutch!” he half-screamed at her, before taking a calming breath. “Dutch. You can call me Dutch. For the time being I suppose I will have to take your word,” he lambasted her sarcastically. “I…I am inclined to avoid bloodshed much as _anyone_ gathered here,” he said with a significant look at Arthur, “but we are running out of time,” he huffed, looking weary.

“This is a good start, Dutch,” Sparrow told him, eyes earnest. “So, are you still going into Annesburg with Micah?” Dutch stroked his chin for a moment, the wheels in his head turning as he altered his plan.

“Charles and Uncle, I want you two to ride into Rhodes instead of Wallace Station. You get those letters sent and then get back here. Javier, Sadie, skip going into Saint Denis. It’s too risky. I want you to wire the telegrams from Valentine instead. Arthur will be going into Strawberry with the other copies to send both via post and telegraph.”

“Shouldn’t be too bad. I hear they have a nice hotel there,” Sparrow added as a side note, winking at Arthur. Dutch surveyed the two of them for a moment, narrowing his eyes and setting his jaw.

“I have business to attend to in Strawberry,” Dutch told her in an imperious tone, crossing his arms over his chest. “Arthur, I’ll be accompanying you instead of Sparrow.”

Micah blinked and Arthur startled.

“I thought you were sendin’ the telegrams with me in Annesburg, Dutch. Why are you goin’ into Strawberry instead?” Micah questioned, brow furrowed. Dutch turned a frigid gaze on him that sent a chill down Sparrow’s spine just to witness.

“Have you suddenly mistaken yourself for the leader of this operation, Mr. Bell?” Dutch squawked. “I am sending the forgeries from Strawberry because I have other business there and that is all you need to know. If you’re so concerned with getting the Annesburg copies of the forged letters sent, take Miss Callaghan here with you, she wrote them. Probably would be wise to have someone with you who can read,” he mocked.

Micah goggled at Dutch for a split second, but got his face under control and grunted agreement.

“Whatever you say, boss,” he responded with a forced smile and a tilt of his head.

Shuffling her feet a moment, Sparrow cleared her throat, pasting an unsure look across her features.

“Mr. Van der Linde…Dutch. Mr. Bell and I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye. Surely there’s someone else who could accompany him instead? I could go with you and Arthur could go with Micah, perhaps?” Dutch gave her a dangerous look.

“You will go with who I tell you to go with,” he snarled. “And that’s final,” he added with a raised and trembling finger jabbing at her. Sparrow blinked, appearing shocked and disappointed.

“What? You’re sending her with_ Micah?_ Dutch, are you insane?!” Arthur argued. Dutch’s harsh gaze turned on him. If looks could kill, Arthur would have been engulfed in either fire or ice, both shone in Dutch’s half-mad gaze.

“You! You are on thin ice, son. Don’t you dare question me again.” Arthur sucked in a massive breath, cheeks going crimson with rage.

_Oh shit,_ Sparrow thought, seeing the furious look on Arthur’s face. She took a step to place herself in Arthur’s line of sight, breaking his glare at Dutch, her expression begging him to see that they had something planned, begging him not to be the adorable blockhead he could sometimes be.

“Weeeell,” Micah drawled with a smirk as hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Looks like Blacklung still hasn’t learnt to share his part with the rest of the gang.” Arthur bristled at that, his lip curling, his left hand wrapping into a tight fist and his right hand reaching for his pistol, but the sudden excitement set him coughing, forcing him to step away and gasp for breath and for the first time ever, Sparrow was glad of the interruption. Exchanging awkward looks, a few of the gang members began to shuffle away, their own orders clear.

“Do I need to repeat myself, Miss Callaghan?” Dutch asked threateningly, staring Sparrow down. She sighed.

“It’s settled, then,” she conceded dully, forcing herself not to look at the coughing, gasping outlaw who was curled in on himself next to her. “Mr. Bell? Shall we go?”

“I’m…” Arthur stopped, coughing again desperately, his face red with effort. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not,” Sparrow said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You have someplace else to be.”

“You gonna let your woman speak to you like that, Blacklung?” Micah laughed.

“That’s enough!” Dutch interrupted harshly. “Go do your goddamn jobs and get out of my sight! Micah, I am counting on you to ensure that our Miss Callaghan makes it into Annesburg to send that telegram. Arthur, go take some medicine before your coughing drives me to madness, son, we need to get on the road. _Good God,_ is this a gang or a nursery?! Get a move-on everyone, you know your jobs!”

“Well, come on, little lady. We goin’?” Micah asked with a predatory look, clearly put out with the change of events.

“The sooner we get this over with, the better,” she muttered as they walked toward their horses. She slung herself up onto Molasses and her stomach sank as she saw Arthur making a beeline toward her, still fighting off coughs. Her heart ached when she saw the sleeve he had been using to cover his mouth was stained crimson with blood. He grabbed her leg urgently, staring up at her.

“What are you doin’? We did not talk about this. This was not the plan you and Dutch explained,” he hissed quietly. “He’s shuffled everybody around and he’s stuck you with…” He huffed, so angry he couldn’t even get the rest of his sentence out.

“I need you to trust me, Arthur. Please.”

“You are talking about going on a trip with _Micah Bell_,” he growled, fingers grabbing her calf so hard she could feel her flesh bruising.

“You are hurting me, Arthur.”

“I…! I am…” He spluttered before he realized what she meant and released his grip. “Please don’t do this, Sparrow. He ain’t trustworthy. He’s gonna try somethin’, and I ain’t gonna be there to protect you.”

“If you will please excuse me for just a moment, Mr. Bell, I need a word with Arthur in private.” Micah sneered at Arthur and gave Sparrow a lustful once-over. She tried to ignore the way Micah’s gaze made her skin crawl.

“Looks like your woman’s lookin’ for a man who ain’t about to keel over, Blacklung. Good thing I’ll be right by her side for the next day or so,” he taunted.

“You shut your damn mouth, boah, afore I shut it for ya, permanent like,” Arthur snapped, but he fell into another coughing fit. Micah laughed raucously and looked at Sparrow.

“You come find me when you’re ready to go. I’ll be on the south side of camp. Try not to drop dead on your way to Strawberry, Morgan. Or don’t. Makes me no diff’rence.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bell.” She rolled her eyes when he was gone. Arthur growled.

“What are you doin’?” he demanded again softly as she hopped down from Molasses so she could speak with him.

“I am doing what needs to be done. _You_ are making a scene. Dutch and everyone else is looking over here, and that’s just exactly what I do not need, Arthur.”

“Sparrow, I…”

“Arthur, I need you to _trust me.”_ Sparrow met his eyes fiercely. Taking another step closer, she dropped her voice to an almost silent whisper. “Do you really want to be there if the Pinkertons show up in Annesburg?” He stared, realization dawning.

“This plan ain’t about the letters,” he murmured, blinking. Sparrow kept her face deliberately neutral.

“Go get on your horse and don’t say another word about it, Arthur. Please. I will see you in two days.” Scowling, Arthur scratched his head beneath his hat brim.

“You didn’t even bother to tell me,” he muttered, his tone hurt. “You really thought I’d screw up your plan that bad?” he snarled, his temper growing hot.

“Yes! Yes, I did,” she snapped. “I thought you’d do exactly what you’re doing right now and lose your temper and do something stupid.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed. He hated when anyone implied that he was stupid. That was not Sparrow’s intent, but it was obvious that was how he had taken it.

“And here I was thinkin’ you was diff’rent, that you wasn’t judgin’ me for every goddamn thing I’ve ever done. Here I was thinkin’ you wouldn’t think the worst of me,” he muttered bitterly. Sparrow bared her teeth, instantly furious. She had seen the thick letter from Mary that had been waiting for him when they returned from Saint Denis. She knew he was implying she was just like Mary and the very idea nearly sent her into a blind rage.

“Do you really think so little of me that you would equate me to a woman who wanted to change everything about you? That you would accuse me of being anything like her? I thought you knew me better than that. I’ll see you in two days, Arthur,” she finished, her voice dripping with disappointment. Arthur’s eyes flickered guiltily at her.

“I’m sorry.”

“Goodbye, Arthur.” He grabbed her horse’s reins, halting her from getting back in the saddle.

“Sparrow, I need ya to forgive me before you go.” He paused, looking at her significantly. “In case I ain’t here when you get back,” he told her, agonized. Frown softening, she saw it now. The panic on his face. The terror in his eyes. He was lashing out because he was feeling vulnerable. Helpless. She reached out a hand and to her horror, he flinched, actually _flinched,_ as though he was afraid she was going to strike him.

“Oh Arthur. I do forgive you. And I’m sorry I didn’t give you any warning. I wanted you to look surprised. I needed you to be thrown off as much as everyone else. The less you know about what I’m doing, the better. I’ll be fine. You go with Dutch and try not to eat one another alive, please. Here,” she pulled a glass bottle from her satchel and handed it to him, her hand warm on his. “I made another batch of cough syrup for you last night. I’ll be back in your arms before you know it,” she promised, cupping her outstretched hand against his warm cheek and feeling him lean into it this time.

“I am a fool,” he sighed, covering her hand on his face with his own.

“Only sometimes,” she advised him with a small smile. Above them, a White-throated Sparrow sang its cheery song, though it was partially drowned out by the _teakettle-teakettle-teakettle_ call of a Carolina Wren and the _cack-cack-ca-clack-clack_ of a Downy Woodpecker. Yellow warblers trilled and somewhere in the distance a Red-tailed Hawk gave its eerie cry. “Spring is coming again,” she told him. “Listen for me. I’ll be with you. Now, go on and get with Dutch and let me leave before that idiot Micah gets suspicious.”

“You take care of yourself,” he pled. She smiled and winked at him as she climbed back onto Molasses.

“You know I can. I love you.”

“I love you too, darlin’.”

\-----------

Micah’s eyes were on her constantly. Vicious, predatory and full of ill intent. Something had set him in a truly nasty mood. Sparrow’s hands shook on her reins.

“I…I’m not feeling so well, Mr. Bell,” she told him, her face going pale.

“Well, we gotta keep goin’. I ain’t waitin’ all day,” he griped.

“Not all day, just a couple of hours. Please. It’s my heart.” Micah scowled and chewed the inside of his cheek.

“I think you may be more trouble than you’re worth,” Micah grumbled darkly, scowling. “Fine. A couple of hours. _Maximum,”_ he groused, getting down off Baylock. Sparrow nodded gratefully, climbing down off Molasses with trembling hands. She half-fell in the dirt, surprised when Micah actually bothered to catch her and keep her from falling. Her gratitude was short-lived as his hand slid down to her ass and gave it an appreciative squeeze. “When we camp tonight, I’ll show you what you been missin’ out on. Heart problems or not, I’d be willin’ to bet you’re a nice, tight ride with how long Morgan’s tolerated you, missy,” he oozed, fingering that greasy mustache of his. Sparrow could barely contain the shudder that his words produced until he turned away, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of his saddlebag. He offered her the bottle, but she shook her head.

“I need to lie down,” she told him, fanning herself and swallowing hard, grasping at her chest.

“Fine. But like I said, we ain’t got all day.”

\-------------------------

Micah was furious, and though it was _him_ who had fallen asleep for several hours after polishing off two bottles of whiskey, he blamed Sparrow. By the time they rode into Annesburg, the post office was closed.

“Guess we’ll have to send it in the morning,” she told him sweetly. They made their way to the nearby hotel, him fuming and muttering under his breath.

“Need a room. Now!” Micah hissed at the innkeeper, jaw ticking with annoyance.

“Two,” Sparrow cut in, “We aren’t married yet,” she told the innkeeper, forcing herself to take Micah’s hand. The greasy outlaw gave her an astonished and then enraged look. The innkeeper was indifferent, and handed them each a key, taking two dollars from Sparrow, who thanked him.

“That was not funny, missy,” Micah rasped out, taking her wrist roughly once they were upstairs. He hovered over her, all intense presence, toxic masculinity and bushy mustache. “What are you playin’ at, little girl? Aside from wastin’ my time?”

“Let go of me, Mr. Bell. You have your own room, go to it.”

“I’ll go to it whenever I feel like it, bitch. You just stay out of trouble and stay the hell out of my way. Fuck!” He hollered, and then spat a stream of tobacco juice on the floor, eyes glittering with hatred.

“Are you quite alright?” Sparrow asked him, trying hard to keep the giddy amusement out of her voice.

“I’m fine. Mind your own fuckin’ business. I’ve got things to do.”

“I don’t think the people here will take kindly to you fucking their goats, if that’s what you’re planning on,” she called as he started to walk away. In an instant Micah was on her, his hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing her trachea shut, slamming the back of her head against the wall. Sparrow’s eyes bugged out and she scratched at his hands, trying to gasp air in, but it did not come past his vice-like grip on her neck.

“Hey, you leave her alone!” called a man who had just stepped out of his room. Was there yet honor among thieves? Sparrow wondered, considering the seediness of the hotel.

“You shut the hell up,” Micah demanded, pulling one of his pistols and aiming it at the man, who squawked and retreated. Banging her head into the wall one more time for good measure, Micah released his grip on Sparrow’s neck. Glaring at her for a moment as she sucked in air, mouth gaping like a fish, heart pounding, Micah leaned in close, his nasty breath hot against her face. “You’ve been nothin’ but trouble for me the whole time I’ve known you,” he told her. “I oughta have my way with you, wear you out until Morgan never wants to touch you again. Then I oughta ram my pistol so far up your pretty little ass you can lick the barrel before I pull the trigger and blow your brains all across the wall. But you ain’t worth the bullet.” He shoved her back and stepped away from her, a look of disgust painted on his unfriendly features.

“That’s…” Sparrow gasped in a breath, “a funny way of telling a woman you can’t get it up.” Teeth bared, Micah charged at her again, but this time she was ready, her finger on the trigger of her pistol. “Touch me…” she gasped, “touch me again, and I’ll blow your guts across the ceiling, Bell. You don’t have to like me,” she took another ragged breath, “and I don’t have to like you, but you _will_ keep your goddamn hands off me.”

Micah’s eyes narrowed, but he stepped back.

“We ain’t done here,” he promised.

“Oh, I know, Mr. Bell, I know.”

\-------------------

Sparrow managed to catch her breath, and waited for her heartrate to normalize before she walked back downstairs. She had wrapped a bit of cloth around her neck to cover the ugly purple handprint that had bruised there, hoping not to attract stares. The innkeeper glanced up.

“Need somethin’? Extra blanket cost two bits,” he informed her.

“I don’t suppose you happened to see which way my man went?” she asked him. He pointed a lazy, crooked finger and she nodded in thanks before stepping out of the creaky building.

Creeping slowly down the boardwalk, she kept her ears open for voices, finally identifying Micah’s. Adrenaline tore through her when someone rounded a corner, but it was not Micah. Safe for the moment, Sparrow calmed herself, checking her sidearm, spinning the cylinder to assure herself that it was fully loaded before sneaking closer to where she heard Micah’s voice.

“He agreed I would be rewarded! Financially!” came Micah’s angry voice from two buildings down. Swallowing her fear and frustration, Sparrow snuck closer, listening.

“To date you have done _nothing_ to stop the gang from harassing Mr. Cornwall. Why should he pay you even a cent more? As it is, you’re only being spared because you’re feeding us information,” a second voice said impatiently. “And yet here we are, wasting our time yet again! You told us Mr. Van der Linde would be at the post office with you this afternoon and neither of you were there.”

“Look, he ain’t comin’, but I’ve got something almost as good. His woman. Yeah, yeah, his woman is here and she’ll be in the post office in the mornin’. Ain’t that worth anythin’?”

“It isn’t worth a tinker’s damn, Mr. Bell. I’m beginning to wonder if this agreement we have with you is nothing more than a fool’s errand. I’m beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t just put a bullet in you to spare ourselves the irritation of listening to your voice.”

“No, no, look. Look, the gang’s got a plan. It’s a doozy. They’re gonna send a damaging letter about Mr. Cornwall. Dutch’s woman is sendin’ it tomorrow. You take her, and you’ll save Mr. Cornwall a lot of hassle,” he promised.

“This is your last chance, Mr. Bell. If this is all a play, you’ll be making a long drop from a short rope, you mark my words.”

“I promise. It’s legit,” Micah insisted. Arthur was right. The cheese had been set and the rat had taken it. Forcing herself not to risk venturing a look at the persons he was speaking with, Sparrow dashed back to the hotel and locked herself in her room, heart pounding.

\----------------------------

Sparrow entered the post office the next morning dressed in a plain dress she had packed, looking for all the world like a genteel lady with a letter to send. She forced herself not to shake as she approached the counter.

“I need this message sent via telegraph, please,” she told the man behind the counter.

“Where to?” he asked.

“A Dr. Albert Mason at The Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas, please.”

“Hmm. That’ll be two dollars,” he told her. “I’ve got a bit of a backup, so if you need a response, you’ll have to wait around.”

“No need, I’ll check back.” She handed the money over and turned to walk away, nearly running into a thin man in a bowler hat adorned with a red band.

“Just a moment. Stop. Agent Milton, Pinkerton Detective Agency. I need to see that letter.”

“Oh. Oh, alright, is everything okay?” Sparrow asked, the face of innocence as she passed her letter from the clerk to Agent Milton. He read it aloud, holding the letter as though it were rigged to explode.

_ “‘Dear Dr. Mason, I hope this message finds you well. I am wiring to inquire whether you received the paintings for the guidebook…’_ Guidebook?” Milton asked aloud, incredulous. Slowly, so that he wouldn’t think it was a gun (though that sat right next to it within her bag), Sparrow pulled out one of the field guides she had helped illustrate.

“I’m a naturalist. I illustrate for field guides. Here, I just published this one two years ago. It’s very popular.” Milton scowled, lip curling.

“No need,” he told her, flicking the paper back at her. She handed it back to the clerk, who took it with a shrug and added it to his pile of things to send out. “Have a good day, ma’am. Sorry to bother.”

“It’s no problem, no problem at all. Is there anything I can help you with?” she offered. He scoffed, his gaze giving her a once-over that clearly decided she couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Dutch Van der Linde.

“No.” With that, he was gone. Sparrow took a gasping breath and sat down on one of the nearby benches, wiping sweat from her hairline with a trembling hand. She waited there until she got a short response back from Albert, which made her feel better about the previous harrowing ordeal. Her business completed, she stepped out of the side door and nearly into the barrel of Micah’s pistol.

“Now just what in the hell was that all about?” he hissed. “I saw you in there, saw Milton read that letter, and he didn’t do a damn thing. What the hell did you send, you stupid whore?”

“What’s the matter, Micah? Upset your buddies didn’t find what they were looking for?” Charles’ dry voice came from atop one of the buildings they were standing between. Micah looked up in shock to find Charles standing there, weapon aimed at him. He looked to the far end of the alley where Bill was standing, shaking his head.

“How dare you, you son-of-a-bitch?” Bill asked in his accusatory nasal tone.

“Even I never stooped that low, Micah,” came John’s hoarse voice as he stepped into view. “Here, put these on him,” he ordered, tossing Sparrow a set of manacles. She complied, snapping them onto Micah’s filthy wrists.

“You ain’t heard the end of this, girl, I’ll see you in an early grave, I promise you.”

“The reaper may beat you to that as it is,” she told him dryly as the gang members approached.

“We’ll wait here until dark and then we’ll head back,” John told her. “You get back to camp and get some rest. Arthur and Dutch should be back by the time you get there.”

“Did everyone get their telegrams sent out yesterday?” Sparrow asked hopefully.

“Far as I know. We had to ride hard to get there and then back here, even with you stalling. Dutch wasn’t thrilled about having to leave camp to run an errand, even an important one, but I think the fresh air probably did the old bastard some good,” John laughed. “This was a slick trick you pulled, little lady. I can see why Arthur likes you.”

“You good to send the real message out from here for me, Marston?” she asked, pulling a letter from her bag. He took it, nodding.

“I gotcha,” he promised easily.

“Good. Well, if it’s all the same to you, boys, I think I’ll be having a drink before I take off,” she gasped out, feeling light-headed.

\-------------------------

ONE WEEK EARLIER

“I want to thank you, young lady,” Dutch told her when she entered his tent three days after Colm O’Driscoll was hanged. “For what you did in Saint Denis. You could just as easily have let that O’Driscoll shoot me in all that mess.” Sparrow smiled, handing him a cup of coffee and a cigar, which made him raise an eyebrow, but he accepted both gratefully.

“I’m not your enemy, Dutch. I’ve been hoping to have another chance to prove that. I also hope I can offer a…” She searched for the word, “…_fresh_ perspective on some of what has happened.”

“Hmm. A lot of things have happened, Miss Callaghan. A lot of hard things. This plan you mentioned, with Cornwall…” He shook his head. “His men killed my…” Dutch puffed out a rough breath. “Hosea. They killed Hosea. Our boy Lenny too. And, while I don’t agree with how Arthur got him out, Cornwall and his little detectives are also responsible for the imprisonment of young John. Leviticus Cornwall has pursued us like a mad dog. And like any mad dog, he needs to be put down,” Dutch hissed furiously.

“I didn’t think you were in the revenge business, Mr. Van der Linde.” He exhaled painfully at that, gaze dragging away from her to stare out across the camp where his people were milling purposelessly.

“I am trying,” he told her, “to right a wrong, Miss Callaghan. That is all.”

“So right it, then. But do it in a way that won’t have you all hanging from the gallows and do it once you have your ducks all in a row. You have a rat, that much is obvious. Arthur has his suspicions, but no evidence.”

“Hmm,” he hummed again, lip curling around his cigar.

“And I know you have yours,” she conceded.

“I am guessing, from your tone, that you have yet another plan to present to me, Miss Callaghan,” Dutch said in a martyred voice, exhaling sweet-smelling smoke that seemed to relax him a bit. She chuckled.

“I do indeed. Here.”

Dutch looked over Miss Callaghan’s notes skeptically, annoyed at the mention of him leaving the camp to send a telegram, but it was an otherwise solid plan. He still wasn’t convinced Micah was their mole, but it was as good a plan as any to narrow down the possible suspects, the obvious benefits to the telegrams and letters aside. He scratched his chin absently and stared at Sparrow.

“And you’re sure this is going to work, young lady?” Sparrow looked momentarily annoyed, but collected herself and smiled slightly.

“I’m sure, Mr. Van der Linde. That kind of accusation won’t be taken lightly, so we’ll need to have backups in place.”

“No doubt,” he murmured, looking at the list of names for each party. “May I ask how you’ve come by this…course of action, Miss Callaghan?”

“Call it a gut feeling,” she told him. “Call it instinct. Either way, it will work, or it won’t.” He had to admit that Micah had been conveniently helpful recently. Almost too helpful. Almost too eager. Still, that didn’t make him a traitor, that was for damn sure.

“Hmm. And what if your predictions are incorrect?” he challenged. He wasn’t going to say it, but the assertion was clear: what if Arthur was the mole? Or one of the other gang members?

“How about we cross that bridge when we come to it, Mr. Van der Linde?” He thought for a moment, nodded finally.

“Alright. But I don’t like this. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Neither do I, but what choices do you have available?” she asked him.

“Not many,” he griped, “But why should I trust you? _That’s_ the real question.” The look Sparrow gave him was so similar to one Hosea had often given him when they were young, it sent chills down his spine.

“Would it be enough to say ‘because Arthur does?’” That stung. Dutch avoided her gaze guiltily, distracting himself by fiddling with a hair on his chin he had missed while shaving.

“It used to be,” he told her after a moment, keeping his voice neutral. “For now, we’ll see what happens.”

“Thank you, Mr. Van der Linde. For trusting me.” He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I _don’t_ trust you, Miss Callaghan. But I’m willing to have a little faith. If more people did, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

“Well, I’ll try not to disappoint. One way or another, we’ll find the rat.”

\-----------------------------------

“So, explain to me again exactly how John and Charles knew to meet up with Bill in Annesburg?” Arthur asked hazily, holding one eye more shut than the other in the haze of several celebratory drinks. Sparrow laughed.

“It really wasn’t that clever. A lot of things could have gone wrong. And Dutch put a lot of faith in me. Kept telling me how much I remind him of Hosea. Between that and the fact that you vouched for me, I was able to persuade him to let me try something. We each had a copy of the forged rumors and we each had to send them from our respective post offices, but Dutch scrambled most of you right before we left, just in case someone else had called in the Pinkertons. Dutch still suspected you, but I was able to convince him that splitting the gang up would be the best way to out the traitor. Even if the plan didn’t out our rat, we agreed that sending the telegram from multiple cities was the best way of making sure it did its job. And if it revealed the traitor, all the better. Charles and John each already had telegrams waiting for them at their respective post offices letting them know to ride like hell to Annesburg since I suspected Micah. Javier and Sadie had a telegram instructing them to meet you and Dutch, which is why they tracked you down in Valentine. I sent those telegrams a week ago when I went into town for cough syrup supplies. While you were arguing with me about the plan, Dutch told Bill to follow Micah and I to Annesburg under the pretext that it was me he didn’t trust, which, I suppose, was actually true.”

“You know you coulda told me about all this,” Arthur told her sheepishly, still sounding a little hurt. She laughed.

“Like I said, your surprise had to look real, Arthur. I had to hide the plan from you to keep you safe. I’m just glad it worked.”

“Well, it worked to catch Micah, anyway,” Arthur agreed, sighing out a relieved breath. “Dunno if it’ll solve our problem with Mr. Cornwall, though.” Taking another swallow of whiskey, Arthur planted a sloppy, affectionate kiss on Sparrow, who cuddled into his side as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

“So, what will happen to Micah?” she asked. He shrugged, but she heard him swallow with a click. “Arthur?”

“Well, if they don’t kill him on the way, he’ll come back here. And then…well. There ain’t but one thing that happens to those who betray the gang.”

“Let me guess: a bullet.”

“Or three. Or ten,” he muttered darkly. They both sat up on the cot as the sound of thundering hooves drew near.

“We gotta go!” John hollered, leaping from his horse as soon as he entered the clearing.

“What the hell are you talking about, son?” Dutch asked as he stepped out of his tent.

“We gotta go,” John repeated, steel grey eyes wide. “Micah got loose. Charles has been shot, bad.”

“Where’s Bill?”

“He’s coming behind with Charles, but, Dutch, we gotta go! Right now! Micah knows where we’re stayin’, and now he ain’t got no reason to keep that information to himself.” Dutch’s face went pale, but in an instant he had collected himself, ever the strong leader.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called in his strong voice. “You heard the man. Pack the essentials, we are leaving!”


	22. Not a Charity

“He needs a doctor, Dutch,” Arthur plead from where Sparrow was holding pressure to the bullet wound in Charles’ back.

“I understand that, Arthur, but we still don’t have any place to go! We have no money and we’re wanted everywhere! Now, I know you and Mr. Smith are very close, but I need you here, helping me. Priorities, Arthur.” Arthur’s face went red, then white and then red again. He stepped forward, his shoulders taut, his jaw set, looking angrier than Sparrow had ever seen him.

“Dutch, Charles has got to go to the doctor,” Arthur ground out in a low, surprisingly calm voice compared to his demeanor. “_Right now_. Now, I’m goin’. You can either get right with that, or you can be angry, but I’m goin’.”

“And in the meantime, what do you expect us to do, Arthur? Stay here and wait for Micah to out us to the Pinkertons?! A thing that would not have happened had we not stirred the hornet’s nest, by the way?!”

“Stir the – stir the hornet’s nest?! Dutch, is you seriously trying to accuse Sparrow or anyone else of stirrin’ the hornet’s nest when you’ve made it your life’s work to do that very thing?”

“Oh, and there he is, my doubting Thomas once again,” Dutch snapped, gesticulating at Arthur with a sweeping gesture.

“And there he is, the man who’s always lookin’ out for hisself,” Arthur answered, getting right in Dutch’s face. Dutch went pale, his jaw dropped.

“I have always only _ever_ done my best to care for all of you. To look out for all of you. And this is the thanks I get.” He shook his head. Arthur maintained his terrible gaze, intense and furious, not at all cowed by Dutch’s manipulation. He was long past caring what Dutch thought of him anymore.

“Is that what you tell yourself at night, so you can sleep, Dutch?” he murmured, eyes wide with righteous anger. He scoffed and turned away, walking over to where Charles was taking rough, shallow breaths, lying on a pallet on his belly. “Can you get him so he can ride?” Arthur asked Sparrow urgently.

“I don’t know. We need to get him to the clinic in Saint Denis. Charles, stay with me, okay? How are you feeling?”

“I’ve…I’ve been better,” the big man said in a dry tone. Sparrow rammed a wad of cloth into the wound, Arthur watching closely, his hand settling on Charles’ shoulder.

“If you can ride and keep pressure that would may be work. Ideally we take a wagon,” Sparrow told him, shaking her head at the whole situation.

“Wagon it is then,” Arthur said immediately. “John, Bill. Please.” The two of them glanced at Dutch, who was uncharacteristically quiet. “He’d do the same for you, you goddamn fools!” he hollered and that was all it took to move them. In just a few minutes, the wagon was hooked up. Arthur lifted Charles and helped Sparrow up into the back of the wagon, taking care not to jostle his big frame or bump his wound. Dutch watched Arthur wordlessly as he climbed up on the driver’s seat, taking the reins.

“And what are the rest of us supposed to do, Arthur?” he asked, sounding, with his tone and the softness of his voice, like a man who has realized he is broken but unable to fix himself. Arthur blinked.

“Thought you had a plan, Dutch.”

“That’s enough, Arthur,” Javier said finally. Arthur huffed, shook his head, glanced at Sparrow.

“What about the cabin?” he asked her. She nodded.

“It’s hidden. Secluded. It’s as good a place as any for them to lie low,” she conceded.

“It won’t do for long.”

“It’ll do for now,” she pointed out. Scowling, Arthur gestured for someone to hand him a map. Dutch sent Javier to bring his from his tent, and Dutch handed it to Arthur, his face a mask of pain as he looked up at the man who was once his friend and his child. Stone-faced, Arthur pulled out his pencil and balanced the map on his knee, his tongue caught at the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on sketching dotted lines converging on a star on the map. He handed the map deliberately to John, ignoring entirely Dutch’s outstretched hand.

“There’s a little cabin,” he told them all. “Right where I marked. It’s back west a ways, at least a two day ride in the wagons. I marked three trails. Y’all oughta split up. We’ll be back when we can.” With that, he slapped the reins across the horses’ backs and the wagon moved forward with a juttering, grinding noise that made all who were gathered flinch. Looking over his shoulder at Dutch, Arthur held up a hand in farewell.

“Are you coming back, Arthur?” Dutch called after him in a doubtful tone.

“I always do,” Arthur answered.

\---------------

“What the hell was that about, Arthur?” Sparrow demanded, still holding pressure on Charles’ wound. The big outlaw did not respond, lost as he was in his thoughts and in pushing the horses toward Saint Denis. “Arthur. We had just started establishing good faith with Dutch again. Why would you speak to him like that?” She glanced down at Charles, who had lost consciousness, his face slack and his body relaxed.

“Because he was just gonna leave Charles to die, that’s why,” Arthur hissed in response to Sparrow’s question. “Because nothing has changed. Because time and again he makes stupid decisions that just get us shot.” His head wobbled back and forth and he scowled, staring straight ahead as he steered the horses over the wooden boardwalk that led to Saint Denis.

“I could point out that this last bit was my fault this time,” Sparrow reminded him gently but firmly. He ignored her and she sighed, continuing. “Are we, or are we not going to try to give Dutch a chance, Arthur, because I need to know. I need to know what the plan is. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want you to leave, not anymore. We have work to do, but twisting a knife in Dutch’s side is not going to help anything or anyone. I know he’s in the wrong, but you need to be the better man.” Arthur snorted at that.

“‘The better man.’ Jesus. I ain’t even a good man, Sparrow, let alone ‘better.’”

“Well then, try!” she snapped. “Isn’t that the point of all this persecution, isn’t that the purpose of this proverbial cross you’re nailing yourself to?”

“Ain’t you a little busy to be lecturin’ me?” Arthur yelled, glancing over his shoulder. Sparrow took a deep, calming breath, forcing herself not to rise to meet Arthur’s angry outburst again. They rode in silence until Arthur finally glanced back at Charles. “How’s he look?”

“Pale,” she answered. “And he’s cold, but I think if they can get the bullet out, he’ll be alright.”

“We’re almost there,” Arthur told her. Charles grumbled in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering. He opened his eyes, realized where he was and who he was with.

“You really know how to pick a fight with Dutch, don’t you, Arthur?” he asked weakly.

“I’m gonna get it from you now, too, huh?” Arthur muttered over the sound of the wheels and the wagon creaking.

“He needs you, Arthur. We need you. You’re the only one who’s gonna get us outta this mess,” Charles mumbled, voice woozy. “You’re the only one I’d follow this far. You’re the only one keeping me here…” His voice trailed off and he took a shuddering breath, his eyes going a bit distant. Sparrow and Arthur exchanged a nervous look.

“You ain’t usually this talkative, Charles. Shoulda realized it’d take a bullet to make you social,” Arthur joked, but he looked deeply worried.

“You’re an asshole, Arthur,” Charles mumbled in response, and his eyelids fell heavily as he lost consciousness again.

“Don’t I know it,” Arthur intoned under his breath.

\-------------------

“I was able to get all of it, but he’s gotta take it easy for a little while,” the doctor advised. “He can’t be doin’ anythin’ too excitable. And you make sure you stop by the sheriff’s office and give a description of the man who robbed him,” he advised, but he sounded skeptical of the cover story they had given.

“Will do. Thank you, Doctor,” Sparrow responded.

“He alright?” Arthur asked once she stepped outside where he was waiting anxiously. Looking down at the ground around his feet, she saw he had smoked his way through at least one pack of cigarettes and he was working on lighting another.

“I’m sure all that smoke will do wonders for your lungs,” she pointed out dryly and he scowled, dropping the cigarette and grinding it apart with his boot heel.

“I’m worried. And not just about Charles. What are we doin’, darlin’?” His voice was weary and full of doubt. The lines around his blue eyes were pulled tight, a netting of exhaustion that had caught his stony features, spreading like a spider’s web over his cheeks and forehead and chin. Sparrow took his hand gently.

“The best we can,” she responded, forcing a cheery tone and using a wetted thumb to wipe a smear of grime from his cheek. She kissed him lightly on the lips and smiled. “We’ll figure it out. We always do. I think the first thing is to get everyone settled once we get Charles back to the new camp.”

“And then what? And where?” Arthur asked wearily, looking ancient in the eerie light of the early morning sun, which was rising in hesitant rays over the buildings of downtown Saint Denis.

“Well, we’ll keep working through that journal of yours, helping people. And we’ll find some work for your people to do in the meantime, odds and ins, that sort of thing. Nothing that will get anyone caught, mind.” Arthur stared off into the distance before glancing back to her, looking deeply unhappy.

“Dutch is right, Sparrow. We don’t have any money and we’ve only got me and Charles who can hunt for anything and now he’s down. We’ve got nearly twenty people we gotta keep in food and in supplies. How in the world are we gonna do that?” he asked, hopeless. Sparrow almost laughed.

“I appreciate you not asking, but…” Arthur’s head jerked up from where he had been studying the toes of his boots.

“No. No, you ain’t a charity, and I ain’t gonna–”

“You’re right, you ‘ain’t gonna’ anything, because it’s my choice, and my money. I’ll make sure you’re all well-supplied. But you’ll have to work for me. I’ll find things for you all to do, actual field work, if it makes you feel better about it. Arthur, if they’re your family, then they’re my family. I’ll help you however I need to, even if that means with money. It’s a dirty, nasty business, but as far as I can tell, there’s nothing to be done for it. Just do me a favor and don’t tell Dutch I have a lot of money in the bank.” Arthur wiped a hand across his mouth, glaring at her.

_“No.”_ Sparrow’s shoulders dropped in frustration.

“What was it you told Mrs. Downes?” she reminded Arthur.

“This ain’t about pride,” he snapped.

“Then what, precisely, is it about?” Arthur put his hands on his hips, turning away from her. A man sauntered past, going about his business. He glanced over at Arthur and nodded.

“Mornin’!” he greeted.

“What the hell you lookin’ at?” Arthur exploded, taking a step toward the man, who startled and put his hand on his belt. Before the situation could escalate, Sparrow grabbed Arthur’s shoulder.

“I am so sorry for my husband’s rudeness, sir. We’ve just received some very bad news. Please. Allow us to buy you a drink.”

“Lady, it’s six in the mornin’.” Sparrow grimaced.

“Well, erm…at any rate, I apologize. You have a good day, sir.” He sniffed, studying Arthur’s features.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“I jest got one of them faces,” Arthur purred in a dangerous tone, his hand resting casually on his gun belt. Pleading the heavens for patience, Sparrow rolled her eyes, tugging Arthur back toward the doctor’s office.

“You have yourself a nice day, now, sir,” she ordered, her crisp tone effectively dismissing him. “Well. Thanks for that. Now we’ve really got to get out of here. Charles should be ready to go, but I’ll need help getting him in the wagon. And we aren’t done with this conversation.”

“Oh yes we are,” Arthur growled. Sparrow decided that discretion, in this case, was the better part of valor and walked back into the clinic, leaving a seething Arthur outside instead of continuing to argue with him.

“Stubborn ass,” Sparrow muttered once she was inside. “You okay, Charles?” she asked, helping him stand up from the wheeled chair they had brought him up in.

“Yes,” he said simply, but he limped as they made their way toward the clinic door and into the streets of Saint Denis, Sparrow’s hand around Charles’ waist to provide support. Arthur assisted him with climbing into the wagon, wordlessly lifting most of Charles’ weight with a small grunt. He stepped to the side, coughing for a moment and then spitting a wad of bloody mucous into the street. Sparrow climbed up beside him in the wagon.

“You alright?”

“I ain’t been alright in a while,” he told her, cocking his jaw to the side after he had spoken. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth and then took a deep, calming breath “Need you in the back,” he told Sparrow. “Make sure we ain’t followed.”

“Arthur.” He opened his mouth to tell her that he didn’t want her sitting next to him trying to argue the whole way, but when he met her gaze, he softened. She was staring at him with those green eyes, face soft and understanding and as welcoming as she had always been. There was a reason he talked about his feelings with her. There was a reason he was now able to share his concerns with Charles and John and it wasn’t just the fact that he was dying. Sparrow had, he realized, become not only his lover, but his friend. She was helping him in his quest to be a better man and he realized that his vitriol was misplaced. His frustration, he had to remind himself, laid with Micah, and with Dutch, and with God Himself for putting Arthur in this situation. Sparrow’s brows furrowed a bit as she watched emotions chase one another across Arthur’s face. She cupped his jaw in her hand for a moment, swiping a length of hair that had escaped his hat back behind his ear with a tender motion. “It will be alright.” Arthur chuckled, tucking his tongue in his cheek in bitter amusement.

“I don’t think it will, but we’ll try anyhow,” he responded, resigned.

“That’s all we can do. Now come on. Let’s get out of this nightmare city and back into God’s country,” she urged him. He nodded, waiting just long enough for her to clamber into the back with Charles before nudging the horses to action.


	23. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow admits a secret she's been hiding from Arthur. Also smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: voyeurism

“Do you trust me?” Sparrow asked Arthur where she laid beside him in their tent near the wagon. Charles was in the covered wagon, thoroughly wrapped in blankets and furs, snoring softly.

Arthur turned to Sparrow, his features a craggy line in the light of the half moon that spilled through the light canvas of their tent. He rolled onto his belly, his blue union suit clinging to his frame around his wide shoulders and down across his thin waist, rising in two hills over the gentle curve of his ass.

“Course I trust ya, what kinda question is that?” he frowned.

“It’s just…there’s some things about me you don’t know yet,” she confided. Arthur turned on his side, resting his hand on her hip.

“There are plenty of things you don’t know about me, darlin’. You stayed with me, even after realizing who I was that first day you met me. I can’t imagine why, but I…I’m grateful you did,” he told her, looking a little embarrassed, a small smile spreading across his face.

“You may not be, once I’m through,” she murmured. That finally got his attention, sobering him. He sat up, forehead crinkling. She could see his right hand trembling, tempted to sit atop his sidearm, an ever-present habit when he felt he might be in danger.

“You paid the price on my head, and then some, so I know you ain’t a bounty hunter,” he whispered. “But I’ve seen you kill men, when you needed to. So jest what is it about you I don’t know, exactly?” he asked, his voice low and serious.

“I’ve been trying to stall this, trying to come up with the best way to tell you. But I haven’t got much time left and I could actually do a lot of good.”

“Come out with it then,” Arthur prodded, sounding impatient and growing fidgety. Sparrow sighed, met his eyes. There was no straightforward way to explain things that wouldn’t shock him, and that wouldn’t complicate everything. That wouldn’t change the way he looked at her. The extent of this lie by omission might even make him leave her, but she had to tell him, had to try to make a difference, if she could.

“I told you I’m wealthy,” she began.

“Demonstrated it too,” Arthur added, brow quirked. Sparrow chuckled nervously.

“I may have…_downplayed_ just how wealthy. Tremendously downplayed it, actually.” Arthur frowned. Sparrow broke her gaze from his, swiping a strand of stray hair out of her own face in an anxious motion.

“What d’you mean?” Arthur growled, face unreadable.

“Pull out that philosophy book you found for Dutch.”

“What?” Arthur griped.

“Just…do it. Please.” Arthur obliged her, looking confused. “Now. Look at the spine.”

“_A Treatise on Human Intentions, or The Moral Ambiguity of Opinion_,” he read in a deliberate monotone.

“Keep going.”

“By Timothy McGuire.” Arthur gave her an impatient look, clearly becoming annoyed at her intentional drawing out of her admission.

“Keep going,” Sparrow prompted in an insistent tone. Arthur scowled, but obeyed.

“Callaghan Publishing Company.” The color drained from his cheeks and his eyebrows were nearly lost beneath the hair dangling over his forehead. “The Calla– The _Callaghan_ Publishing Company?!” he demanded, clearly shocked.

“For a group of outlaws who read a lot, you sometimes lack a certain talent for observation,” Sparrow told him shyly. “When my father realized I wanted to write and illustrate guidebooks, he and a few of his friends made some wise investments, starting a publishing company that printed text books, magazines, catalogues and the like. I was, of course, too stubborn to utilize my family’s own publishing company when I did manage to make a name for myself as an illustrator, but it didn’t change the fact that my family, and by proxy I, owned a very lucrative company.”

“Owned?” Arthur asked cautiously, shoving the book back into his pack as though it had grown horns, or was disease-ridden, using only his thumb and his index finger to heave it out of sight.

“When I turned thirty, I sold off most of my assets, and, with the other co-owners, negotiated the sale of the company to Harper Collins,” Sparrow explained. “You’ve likely heard of them, you use their catalogue every time you go to the general store.”

“Jesus. Just how much money do you…no, naw, I don’t wanna know,” Arthur shook his head, holding a hand up as though to physically restrain her from telling him.

“A lot. A whole lot,” she said simply. She met his gaze with a steady stare. “Enough to buy our way out of here. And not just you and I. All of us.”

“No.”

“Arthur…”

“Look, it, it ain’t about pride. It’s about…well, it’s about a lot of things. You announcin’ you’re filthy rich, that ain’t gonna go over well. With anyone. It makes my skin crawl, truth be told. Do you…do you know what I’ve done to people like you, in the past? T’weren’t just robbin’ and cheatin’…”

“Based on that bounty of yours I’ve had to pay, I can guess,” Sparrow retorted. Arthur grumbled something under his breath, wiping a hand over his face and coughing for a minute, grabbing at his canteen and guzzling from it greedily. His eyes were bloodshot and wary when he finally collected himself. “Sparrow…if I’d have known all this when I first met you…” He let his sentence trail off, looking deeply ashamed.

“But you didn’t. You are a good man, Arthur Morgan, whatever else you might have been previously. Look…”

“This is…it’s too much,” he murmured. “I don’t even know how to respond.” Sparrow frowned, crossing her arms defensively over her chest.

“You have to let me help, Arthur. Please. I can fix everything.” His face suddenly went furious, his features hardening like a sudden storm, dangerous and warning of oncoming damage.

“So that’s the take away, then, hmm? Money fixes everything? Just go to the bank and all your problems will be solved and boohoo if you’re unfortunate enough not to have friends with money?” he asked in a bitter, angry voice, eyes glittering with hatred, for what, she didn’t know. But he was right. The whole thing was deeply unsatisfying. It’s part of why she had never mentioned it before now. When Sparrow had first met him, things had been alright. The gang, or rather Dutch, hadn’t been out of control. Now though? With Arthur dying and desperate to save his family before he was in the grave? Sparrow couldn’t not offer what she had. She couldn’t take it where she was going, anyway.

“I’m not saying my money is a good solution. But it _is_ a solution. Will you just think about it?” she pleaded. Arthur looked at her from beneath darkened brows, his blue eyes hazy with frustration.

“I ain’t a thinker, darlin’, I’m a doer. I need something to do about all’a this, somethin’…somethin’ I can control. Even if I did accept your…help…I still got things that need doin’, afore I go. Money can’t fix everything.”

“Well, then, we’ll do them, and I’ll keep going with you, but please don’t just write off the possibility,” Sparrow requested with a unsatisfied shrug of her shoulders. Arthur sighed deeply, coughed and then met her gaze again.

“I’ll think about it. But _do not_ bring it up with Dutch. I don’t know if he’s more likely to kick you out or try to take advantage if he finds out you’re rich, but I don’t like the idea of either possibility.”

“We are running out of time, Arthur.”

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. An odd, thoughtful expression crossed his face and he gave a one-sided smile, relaxing. “On that subject, this ain’t what I want to spend the evenin’ doin’.”

“Oh, and what _do_ you want to spend the evening doing?” Sparrow asked him with a slight smile of her own. He ran a wide hand down her shoulder to her waist, fingers sinking into her flesh with a suggestive squeeze. He rolled closer to her and started unbuttoning her one piece undergarment.

“I got a few things in mind,” he muttered, kissing her neck where it met her shoulder. “Figured I’d see what other…” Arthur nipped at her jaw, “_secrets_ you been hidin’.” He ran his hand over the heat between her legs and caressed the place with his fingers. She gasped and ground against his touch. “Like this secret right here,” he growled, his motions speeding up, his fingers worrying at the cloth separating flesh from flesh.

“That secret’s just for you,” she murmured, sliding her undergarments out of the way.

“The way it should be,” he growled, leaning down and pressing his lips to her flower petal entrance, his tongue dipping into the wet warmth of her.

“You don’t…” She gasped as he sank fingers inside her, “You don’t see me any differently, now that you know?” He chuckled, sending a shiver through her.

“Darlin’, you’ve seen bounty posters with my face on it and plenty a’ numbers listed on ‘em. If I were to judge you based on some number in a bank, well. That’d make me a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn’t it?” Very carefully, he raised a big hand to cover the lingering bruise Micah’s grip had left on her neck, fingers covering the nasty bruise as Arthur met her eyes, his face softening with concern. “You sure you’re alright?” he asked her, as he had already since she had returned from her encounter with Micah in Annesburg.

“I’m alright any time I’m with you,” she told him, leaning into his touch. Arthur nodded and drug his hand away from her neck, instead squeezing one of her breasts, gasping when she reached down between his legs and plopped his heavy and stiffening cock out of his blue union suit. She grasped his balls, holding the warm, soft flesh in her hand for a moment before stroking up his length, dipping the end of her finger into the wet gob of liquid that had oozed like a pearl out of the slit at the head of his cock. She brought her wetted finger to her lips, sucking the essence of him off her finger with a low moan that made Arthur’s eyes widen.

“Jesus, sweetheart, you’ll be the death of me before anything else,” he purred, pushing her onto her back and perching over her face so his thighs were resting on each side of her head, his erect cock jutting insistently next to her lips, his testicles drawn tight up against his body in arousal, otherwise they would be resting on her chest.

Without being asked, Sparrow used a hand to direct Arthur’s stiff cock into her mouth, moaning around the girth of him as he leaned back, his hands massaging behind him on her thighs, running ragged fingernails up and down the insides of her legs as he threw his head back, soft noises pouring out of him as she swallowed him down and darted her head back and forth, choking slightly on his length.

“Oh, oh darlin’ stop,” he cried, tugging his hips back after several minutes of her enthusiastic oral ministrations. “Firstly, if you don’t stop doin’ that thing with that tongue of yours, we’re gonna be done before I even get started. Second, it’s my turn,” he chuckled, climbing off her chest. Sparrow smirked up at him, wiping an arm across her mouth to swipe away the glistening dampness that wetted her lips. “Come ‘ere,” he demanded, picking her up and spearing her abruptly on his cock, his arms beneath her thighs, holding her up as he pumped himself in and out of her. Sparrow squealed and wrapped an arm around his neck, desperate to hold on. When he got like this, needy, desperate, demanding, there was nothing she could do but hold on and enjoy the ride until he was done and her legs were trembling like custard on a wobbly table.

Arthur wrapped her legs around his waist, directing her to cross her ankles so she clung to him and he moved his arms to hug around her back, holding her tight against him as he took his pleasure perched on his knees in the tent, bearing her weight.

“It ain’t enough,” he growled, having apparently forgotten that Charles, if awake, was definitely in earshot. Arthur lifted her and staggered them both out of the tent in a tangle of union suit around his ankles and stockings dangling from one of Sparrow’s legs. Growling, he pressed Sparrow’s back against a tall oak tree, using it to hold most of her weight as he rammed himself inside her with upwards thrusts of his lean hips. “Shit,” he muttered, fingers digging into her waist as she tightened around him, beginning to cry out until he clamped a hand over her mouth. She came hard, with a loud sigh behind his hand. He loosened his grip there and she took one of his fingers into her mouth, sucking on it while making eye contact in the light of the moon.

“Come for me,” she asked him as she slid his finger out from between her lips. He shook his head, mouth open in a pant, breathless.

“No, no, ain’t done yet,” he told her. Arthur flipped her around and Sparrow barely had time to cling to a low branch of the oak tree before he was slamming into her from behind, the slap of their flesh together like applause in the darkness.

“Arthur, Arthur, I’m gonna,” Sparrow began, feeling that cascade overwhelm her again and this time he spun her around, silencing her with a thrust of his cock into her mouth. He finished her off with his fingers, squelching and curling hard and fast inside her until she lost herself and drenched his palm with her slick.

“Please?” Arthur asked, and she nodded around the length of his cock inside her cheek, gulping as he sank down her throat with little stuttering hops of his hips, spilling himself inside her mouth, her tongue swiping the last of his release from the red tip of his glistening cock once she had swallowed the rest of his offering. Arthur breathed heavily, his union suit dangling behind him where he had shoved the top half of it off his shoulders and hips, but it was still caught ridiculously around his ankles. “Oh hell,” Arthur mumbled, glancing over at the wagon as he pulled his underwear back into place.

“What?” Sparrow asked him. Silhouetted against the canvas of the wagon, Charles could clearly be seen, very upright and very, very awake. Sparrow cackled abruptly, pulling what clothing had made it out of the tent with her over herself. “Er, uh, sorry Charles,” she called.

“It’s alright,” he called. “Just, uh, try to keep it down the rest of the night, please?”

\---------

“So. How much of that did you overhear last night?” Arthur asked, running a hand through unruly brown blonde hair as the coffee percolated over the fire.

“All of it. In disturbing detail,” Charles muttered, looking embarrassed.

“Not…ugh, not that,” Arthur grumbled. Charles looked up sharply.

“I heard enough,” he admitted, accepting a cup of coffee that Arthur poured him.

“And?”

“And? And I think you may actually have gotten a lucky break this time, Arthur. You refusing to let her help? It’s a bad idea, for multiple reasons. For one thing, Dutch needs a distraction from pulling the Wapiti into his mess,” Charles hissed venomously, his big hands dwarfing the steamy coffee mug in his grip.

“Hmm. You ain’t wrong. But Dutch…he ain’t gonna respond well to that kinda money bein’ dangled in front of his nose like that.”

“I don’t see what other choice we have, Arthur. The Blackwater take was the gang’s entire savings from last decade. And she could replace it without even blinking.”

“I know. Just can’t help but think I’ll feel like I owe her a debt. Worse than I do already,” Arthur added before Charles could comment. “I just…I’m tired of feeling like I owe people.”

“Maybe that’s just part of being alive, Arthur,” Charles said softly. “Letting people help you and knowing that you have to do what you can in return. She wants to help. So let her.” Arthur sighed.

“When’d you get so wise, Charles?” he smirked. Charles took a sip of coffee and looked at him with a serene expression.

“Try not to mistake bullshitting for wisdom, Arthur. That’s how we got into this mess with Dutch in the first place,” he joked. Arthur huffed a laugh.

“Mebbe so,” he admitted, smiling when Sparrow peeked out of their tent and crept into the morning light. “Mebbe so.”


	24. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow reveals her wealth to Dutch, much to Arthur's chagrin.

Something had broken in Dutch Van der Linde.

Something more than the crack that made him accuse Arthur of betraying him. Something more than the tear that made him trust a snake-tongued liar like Micah Bell. Something more had broken; something deeper. The true damage had been struck the day he watched Hosea gunned down in the streets of Saint Denis. This damage, a lasting destruction of who he was and what he stood for, had shattered inside of him as he stared down in horror at Hosea’s crumpled body, but it had spidered outwards along his psyche even further the day Arthur finally looked at him like what he was – a man out of time and out of ideas. And now, looking up at Arthur as he guided the wagon into their new camp and helped Charles down, Dutch could feel that damage to his very core.

\-----------------

Sparrow and Arthur had returned from Saint Denis with a sore, but otherwise intact Charles four days after the gang had all converged on the small hunting cabin Arthur indicated on the map. The cabin itself was largely used for cooking, and as a safe haven for the women and for Jack. The rest of the gang had set up their wagons and tents around the small building, once again an organized caravan of outlaws and vagabonds. Arthur had disappeared into his tent upon arrival, rolling and tying the flaps down as soon as he laid eyes on Dutch, an uncharacteristic behavior for the usually open man.

“I’ll talk to him,” Sparrow had murmured to Dutch, squeezing his shoulder in a comforting grip that she didn’t entirely feel he deserved. He spent much of the rest of the day perched on a chair, leant forward, his chin cupped in a hand in a contemplative posture. He was planning, Sparrow knew, or trying to plan, and he was worried, about himself or his gang, it didn’t particularly matter. “Mr. Van der Linde,” she called that evening, to capture his attention. He stared blankly into space, his face still and his eyes unfocused. “Dutch.” His brown eyes flashed up in surprise and met hers.

“Miss Callaghan,” he said simply, chewing his lip.

“I understand you’re shy some cash. And hope. And faith,” she tacked on flippantly. Might as well disguise a serious topic with some humor while she could, she thought, feeling her chest aching again. The weary gang leader huffed a short, bitter laugh at her words.

“Among many other things, good sense among them,” he agreed with a nod.

“Well. I can’t help with that last bit, but I can help with the cash.” Dutch’s gaze focused on her, gathering in intensity, a bit of suspicion leaking into his expression. Sparrow sighed. “Spare me the supposition for my motives,” she advised him. “I’m dying, and I have some money and that is that. Arthur is dying and he would like to see you all squared away before…before the end. I’d like to help him with that, much though the stubborn fool would deny me the pleasure.”

“And where, pray tell, did you come by this money, Miss Callaghan?” Dutch asked, his sharpening features predatory, like a cougar, or a wolf. Sparrow put her hands on her hips and chuckled.

“For a band of outlaws who read a lot of books, y’all really don’t pay much attention, do you?” she taunted lightly. Dutch wiped a disgusted hand across his face and then braced his temples between his hands, massaging the flesh there with an air of impatience.

“Miss Callaghan, I am in no mood to play games with you.”

“Harper Collins.”

“What?”

“Harper Collins.”

“The magazine company? What about them?” Dutch griped.

“I recently sold my father’s publishing company to them.” Dutch frowned, leaning back and waiting for further explanation. Sparrow obliged him. “That book of yours, pick it up,” she ordered, figuring that, as with Arthur, it would be the best way to address the issue. Frowning a bit, Dutch did as she said. “Take a look at the spine.” He realized what she was referencing immediately when his eyes roamed over the book.

“‘Callaghan Press,’” he murmured, awestruck. “My dear Miss Callaghan…” She smirked, prepared for the inevitable request for financial assistance. Instead, Dutch’s face hardened and his lip curled in disgust, eyes narrowing. He looked up at her with such repugnance in his gaze that she nearly took a step backward. “You are the very thing we try so hard to avoid. You are the very thing we fight against,” he hissed.

“What?!” she spluttered.

“You thought you could just sweep in and rescue us? That you could write your name on a blank check and buy us?” he snarled, his voice growing in volume. Across the way, Arthur’s tent flap snapped open. Dutch stood threateningly, towering over Sparrow and folding his arms across his chest. “You are no better than Cornwall, taking your wealth and your decadence and spreading it across the façade of ‘society’ while the rest of us struggle for what should rightfully be ours,” he sneered, voice dangerous and brown eyes sharp with hatred. Sparrow’s eyebrows flew up and she opened her mouth to argue, but a heavy hand landing on her shoulder from behind interrupted her tirade.

“Thought I told you not to bring this up,” Arthur growled. For an instant, precisely the polite society behavior that Dutch was accusing her of welled up, telling her not to fight, not to argue with two men who felt they knew better than her.

But then she lost her temper.

Raising herself to her full five foot, three inch stature, Sparrow Callaghan slung her hands onto her hips, ignoring the aching of her heart, which had been beating a sore rhythm in her chest all day.

“Now see here,” she started, turning so she could address them both, “I have done nothing in this camp but help, from the very beginning. You–” Sparrow thrust a finger toward Arthur, “I saved you not once but _twice_ from men who would have killed you for money or other gain, so you don’t get to argue about this with me anymore. And _you_,” this time her wrath turned to Dutch, voice dripping with righteous indignation, “I saved not only your people but your own rotten skin from that fool Micah Bell, and not without great personal danger,” she told Dutch, tugging the scarf from her neck to put Micah’s now-fading fingerprints around her neck on vivid display.

“I have spent nearly my _entire life_ knowing that I would die in my thirties, and I have spent every waking moment trying to do something worthwhile not only with my time but with my resources. I have found a man that I love, and a family that I want to be a part of and…” Sparrow scoffed, shook her head, took a breath, then continued.

“And _now_, Mr. Van der Linde, you accuse me of being like Leviticus Cornwall of all people. Never mind that the book publishing industry does but a drop in the bucket of damage to our natural world compared to his refineries and mines and other garbage. Never mind that my company provides books that may expand our minds and our hearts so that we might have compassion for our fellow man, not least among them that book by Miller you spend so much time fingering. Never mind that I ensured that my company donated books so that children would have them to read. Never mind that the only reason I sold my company was so that I could come to this beautiful country and die in peace, directing the last of my money so that it might actually benefit those I care for!

“No, never mind all of that. Because the only thing you see standing before you is someone fortunate enough to have been born in better circumstances than you, and I do recognize that, Mr. Van der Linde, believe me, I do, but don’t you dare accuse me of being the same kind of small-minded, myopic fool that Mr. Cornwall is, because I _will not_ stand for it. Not for a moment.” Sparrow glared at him, and then opened her mouth again, despite the dull ache in her right arm and the pounding spike of pain that was reaching an icy hand down into her abdomen.

“The only thing you should take away from that book you’ve read so many times is this: there is no escape from society. There is no freedom from the selfish, paltry wants of mankind. No plan can save you, Mr. Van der Linde, and no amount of money, stolen or otherwise, will give you what you want. You want lessons in philosophy? I’ll give you a lesson in ecology instead, Mr. Van der Linde: the strong destroy the weak however righteous the weak might be.” She huffed bitterly as she stared him down. “You can’t fight nature, Dutch. You can’t fight change. You can’t fight any of this. The time for freedom, real freedom, has passed. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can find even a modicum of peace. Take my money,” she whispered, feeling blood rushing behind her ears, feeling her head grow light. She stumbled, catching herself stubbornly on Dutch’s chair and swatting Arthur’s hand away. “It’s all I have left.”

Something had broken in Dutch Van der Linde.

Which is why, as Sparrow gasped out a breath and collapsed against him, he met Arthur’s terrified gaze and murmured,

“Alright.”


	25. Are you there, God? It's me, Arthur.

There was silence in the forest, an unnatural silence that seeped into the boughs of the trees and sank into the cool soil beneath a layer of rotting leaves that blanketed the area. Sunlight wavered through the trees to touch gentle rays against the forest floor. No birds sang. No squirrels chattered.

A twig snapped.

With a snort, the large buck raised his head, nostrils flaring. Soft, liquid brown eyes surveyed the clearing he was lying in, taking in deep, labored breaths. He was tired. He had spent his life running, protecting his herd. He had huddled here, napping fretfully as he tried to gather his strength, but he was not long for the world. No wild animal lives long if it cannot move with the changing of the seasons.

Above him, birds panicked at an approaching predator, a sparrow jeering out an alarm call that had the buck on his feet in an instant, darting away from a roving wolf.

“Run,” the little bird urged him.

Run.

\-----------------------

“…rightly know if you kin even hear me,” said a weary voice. “Don’t rightly know if…if yer even real. I don’t know a lot. Sparrow, she…she says I’m smart. I know lyin’s a mortal sin, but don’t hold it against her.” There was a small, deprecating laugh. “I ain’t clever. Hell, I must be a stupid bastard to have gotten myself into some of these scrapes, but…hell. Shit. Sorry. I ain’t…I ain’t a prayin’ man neither. I ain’t much, I guess, but a fool. I…” The voice broke and soft sniffling could be heard, and then the sound of a hand wiping across a snotty nose with a hard slide of skin against skin. “If yer there, then you already know I ain’t long fer this world. And I knew she weren’t long for it even before that, but…all this loss. All this hurt. Davy. Mac. Kieran. Sean. Lenny.” A long pause and the voice choked out: “Hosea.” There was another sniffle, then a deep, rattling cough. “There must be…there must be some, somethin’, some reason for it. My TB, that makes sense. I beat a man to death. I _deserve_ this. But she…she don’t. I know she ain’t got but much longer, all I’m askin’ is please don’t take her yet. I…” His voice broke again and this time there was a strangled sob that just barely made it out of the speaker’s mouth. “I don’t think I can do this without her.”

“You don’t have to,” Sparrow murmured, taking his hand, which was wet with tears. Arthur startled.

“You’re alright,” he said, voice awed.

“Not ‘alright,’ per say, but I’ll live for now. Just a bit of lightheadedness thanks to that damn murmur. Chest had been aching all day, ought to have known that throwing a fit would tip me off.” She frowned, eyes distant as she thought. “Hmm, I was dreaming about a deer.” Sparrow wriggled upright on the familiar bed, stretching carefully, chest still sore. She looked outside and frowned, seeming to realize that she hadn’t just passed out for an afternoon. “How long have I been asleep?” She turned to face Arthur and was surprised at his appearance. His hair was unkempt, rumpled and tangled in places. His cheeks were covered in a thicker coating of stubble than usual. His eyes – those blue, blue irises appeared even bluer amid the redness of his eyes and the ring of pink around and dark bags beneath them from going without sleep. With his free hand, Arthur shakily smeared a tear that escaped away, cheeks burning red with embarrassment at being caught crying.

“Better part’a three days,” he managed, sniffling again and laughing at himself. “Turns out I’m a blubberin’ fool when you’re doin’ poorly.”

“Hey,” she murmured, putting the back of her hand to his jaw to catch another tear that streaked down his cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with crying now and again.” Arthur glanced at her with a look of chagrin, wiping the end of his nose with his sleeve after an embarrassed sniffle.

“Not accordin’ to Dutch,” he argued with a small huff. “I was mebbe fifteen. Got shot for the first time. That ball of lead sank into my arm and it felt like liquid fire. We got away from the boys was chasin’ us and I was a’blubberin’ and a’bleatin’ on my horse, cryin’ like I was gonna die, which, everythin’ bein’ fair, I thought I was. Dutch he,” Arthur chuckled, eyes going distant, “He yanked me outta my saddle and when I wouldn’t calm down for nothin’, he slapped me right across the face to knock the sense back in’ta me. Still got a scar from one of them rings he likes to wear, here,” he rubbed a finger over the right side of the bridge of his nose absently. “Told me cryin’ was for women and babes and if I weren’t neither of those then I weren’t entitled to cry. I think I’ve cried mebbe five times since then and I feel ashamed of it ev’ry time,” he admitted, flushing again. “Buuuut,” he drew the word out, “like most things I don’t particularly care to do in front of others, I find I don’t much mind doin’ them in front of you,” he smiled slightly, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, which was interrupted with a cough.

“Never have really understood that about you,” she laughed. “I see you interacting with John and the others, all gruff and grim and awkward. I think I’ve seen you express an emotion other than anger to someone other than me maybe twice. You’re gentle but aloof with Jack. You’re polite, but reserved with Mary Beth.” Sparrow frowned a little, squeezed his hand. “So what is it about me?”

Arthur looked up at the ceiling of the cabin for a moment, sighed deeply.

“Dunno. Reckon mebbe seein’ someone admit they’s dyin’ and not treatin’ it as weakness kinda changed my perspective. Don’t think I woulda told Dutch about…about the TB if it weren’t for you. But I see you, waitin’ on death at any minute and…well I guess it ain’t entirely fair to hide somethin’ like that, especially when…well,” his voice trailed off and he looked over at her again with a soft expression. “When realizin’ you’re dyin’s the only reason you bother tryin’ ta live. I spent my whole life just existin’. Guess once I learned I was dyin’ it made it easier for me to be open. Honest. ‘Specially with you. So this…heart thing. We ain’t talked about it much. Haven’t wanted to, frankly, but…how much time you reckon you got?”

“I don’t know, Arthur. My father had a few incidents, chest pains and lightheadedness and fainting spells. Then he went six months with no issues and then dropped dead at his desk. So, I just don’t know. This last spell was worse than it’s been in a few months. Stress doesn’t help, but stress doesn’t help your illness either. We really just need a rest.”

“I dunno if that’s ever gonna happen,” he laughed softly. “You hungry?”

“Half starved,” she admitted.

“Jus’ a minute,” he told her, standing and scooping a bowl of stew from the pot above the chimney fire. He handed it to her with a spoon and she ate it gratefully, setting the bowl on the bedside table when she had finished.

“How’s Dutch?” Sparrow asked. Arthur’s lip curled.

“He’s fine. Tryin’ to decide how he wants to spend your money,” he griped. Sparrow barked a laugh.

“Well, joke’s on him, because that decision goes through me first, then you, then him.”

“Ugh, Christ, that ain’t gonna go over well. I just wanna stay out of it,” Arthur told her, lifting both hands open-palmed in a gesture of defeat. Sparrow’s eyes glittered.

“Too bad. I am not going to let any of Dutch’s half-cocked ideas hurt anyone else if I can avoid it.”

_“If,”_ Arthur emphasized. Sparrow waved a hand at him in a glib gesture of dismissal.

“Come here,” she prompted, patting the bed in front of her, between her legs. Arthur raised a brow and she snorted. “Not like that, not right now. But bring me that brush over there.” The thin outlaw stood, grabbed the indicated brush and sat cross-legged in front of Sparrow with his back to her with her direction.

“What is you doin’?” he griped as she took the brush from his fingers.

“You’re looking rough, love of mine,” she chided. “This hair of yours is liable to house rats if it isn’t brushed soon. Besides, it’s been a while since I just…touched you,” she murmured next to his ear, a gentle hand stroking down his neck, making him shiver with pleasure. Tenderly, she grabbed a lock of golden brown hair and untangled it with her fingers, running the brush through it as she worked the knots out, careful not to tug or pull on Arthur’s scalp. She tucked the brushed hair behind his ears, working on another area and then another until all of his now shoulder-length hair was brushed and sleek. She massaged his scalp with her fingers, delicately raking her nails over the skin, making him hum with pleasure and lean into her touch. Arthur gave a full-body shiver that made her laugh. “What on earth was that?” she asked, amused. He looked over his shoulder at her, going a bit red again.

“I’ve never had anybody touch me like this,” he admitted, blinking rapidly as though in surprise. “It’s…really nice.”

“Well, then nobody has ever treated you how you deserve, Arthur Morgan,” she whispered, kissing his neck. “Here, take this off, it’s plenty warm in here, and I see the door is locked.”

“Well, most of the camp is out and about findin’ resources and mebbe lookin’ for some odd jobs, but I didn’t want anyone bargin’ in,” Arthur explained. “‘Specially not Uncle,” he chuckled.

“Oh, Uncle’s not so bad,” Sparrow teased. She helped Arthur out of his shirt and slid his union suit down around his waist.

“What are you doin’?” he asked again, laughing.

“Just, be still. Let me. This is nice for me,” she persuaded, kissing him this time on his bare shoulder. Sparrow knew that they likely would never have an opportunity to lounge in a fancy room with champagne or room service, but she wanted to do this, wanted to touch him, to appreciate him in a way he had never been appreciated before. He had tried to do the same for her, once, with that dress and the fancy hotel months ago now. Her hands worked across his freckled shoulders, kneading knots out of the muscles there, making him grunt with some combination of pleasure and pain as she did so. His shoulders were dusted with freckles, little moles and a light feathering of hair that softened the sharp lines of tendons and bone beneath the skin, which was pale where his shirt usually covered them. She worked her thumbs up along the sides of his neck beneath his long hair, massaging up around the base of his head. He languidly tilted his head back, letting out a soft sigh as something popped loudly. “Here,” she murmured, guiding his head first left, then right, forcing a series of pops and crackles from his neck joint.

“Oh,” Arthur blurted, eyes going wide at the sensation.

“Relax,” Sparrow prompted, working her hands back down off his neck and across his back, rolling her knuckles into the hard muscles along the sides of his spine. Arthur leaned forward with a moan, forehead almost touching the bed as he stretched like a cat beneath her touch. “Lie down for me,” she asked and he complied, laying on his belly with his long legs stretched out behind him, his arms folded beneath his chin as a pillow. She sat across his waist, one thigh on either side of his pelvis. He spared a look back at her, a smirk on his face.

“I could think of a few things you kin do in that position,” he drawled suggestively. Sparrow poked him through his pants between his butt cheeks, making him squawk in surprise and then guffaw.

“Don’t give me any ideas, Mr. Morgan,” she purred.

“I like your….umph…ooh…ideas just fine,” he muttered as her hands grasped his ass and kneaded the hard muscles there, massaging up to his spine and across his waist before settling back at his shoulders, rubbing, working the muscles until every knot softened and relaxed. Sparrow glanced over his back, studying the many scars there. Up the back of his right arm was a nasty, ragged-edged hole, puckered deep into the muscle with scar tissue bunched around it.

“I’d guess this is from your first gunshot,” she ventured, running her fingers lightly over it.

“Uh huh,” he told her, clenching the muscle beneath her touch. “Still twinges every now and then in the weather. Think part of the bullet got left behind in the bone. Couldn’t draw right for three months. Gun or pencil,” he clarified.

“Hmm. And this one?” she asked him, running a finger down a long white scar that wrinkled over his ribcage on the left side.

“Uh, that one’s kinda embarrassin’,” he told her. “You know them wire hooks that run along train tracks?”

“Yeah,” she assured him.

“Well, I was on top of a train, tryin’ my damndest to figure out how to get into the car from the roof and I weren’t payin’ no attention, had my back to the front of the train, my ass in the air, which is probably for the best or it mighta killed me. Anyways, uh, one’a them hooks just kinda reached out and grabbed me. I dangled from it by my vest for the better part of a minute until the car Hosea was on got to the hook. He pulled me loose and sat me back on my feet, cacklin’, but glad I was alright. From then on he wouldn’t stop makin’ jokes about hookin’ the biggest freshwater sucker he’d ever seen, and on land at that. He told ‘fishin’ stories’ about that incident for years to anyone who’d listen,” Arthur laughed. After a moment, his laughter faded and he sighed. Sparrow continued her ministrations, gently massaging sore, tired muscles and letting him think.

“How about this one?” she asked finally, fingers trailing over a reddish-pink scar in his side.

“That one taught me a lesson in humility,” he chuckled. “There was this little lady, all alone with a wagon full of rations and odds and ends. I decided it’d be an easy buck to rob her. I jumped outta the bushes along the trail and before I could get words outta my dumb mouth she put a hole in my side with a poisoned throwin’ knife.” He pushed himself up a bit so he could rest on his elbows and look over his shoulder again at Sparrow. “I woke up in a doctor’s office handcuffed to the bed. I spent a month in jail and lost the three hundred dollars I’d been carryin’. Dutch was spittin’ mad when I showed back up, gave it to me up one side and down t’other. Weren’t but about six months after that that he showed up with little Johnny Marston at his side,” Arthur went on, tone going a bit sour. “Still. He was a good kid. About as smart as a box of rocks, but he tries. Sometimes. I guess.”

“What is it with you and him? You seem so angry at him, but he’s your brother.”

Arthur sighed, turning over and gently shoving Sparrow off to the side.

“He _is_ my brother,” Arthur said in a quiet voice, “but he…he ran off on me…us,” he corrected, “for a damn year. No word from him, nothin’. Just took off, and then showed back up to a kid and a woman about ready to castrate his dumb ass,” he continued dryly.

“You were worried you’d lost him.”

“I was worried he weren’t gonna come back to his responsibilities,” Arthur corrected, raising his voice, but then forcing himself to calm. “And I worry he’s gonna run off again. Well, not like I have a leg to stand on that topic anymore,” he said tiredly.

“What is it you want from him, Arthur?” Sparrow asked, genuinely curious. He eyed her for a moment, disliking the turn this conversation had taken, but he finally answered.

“I want him to be a father to that son of his. And a husband to Abigail. He has the opportunity to have what I lost. And I hate him for it, sometimes. Sometimes I look over at Jack and I…” He swallowed hard. “I wish he were mine. Or, at least, I wish I hadn’t lost Isaac,” he murmured. He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “I used to have a picture of him, you know? Few drawin’s too, in my old journal. But I lost ‘em. In Blackwater. With everything else.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Sparrow said softly, cupping his cheek. He caught her hand, pushed it away.

“I ain’t fishin’ for sympathy,” he muttered. “Just wish I could see his face again, one last time, anyway.”

“You know I could – ”

“No.” He cut her off with a tone of such insistent finality that she didn’t bother to argue. “I ain’t riskin’ you for a picture of somebody I already lost.”

“You know,” Sparrow started again in a lighter tone, adjusting her seat on the mattress, “I’ve often wondered about that journal of yours, your drawings. You’ve seen plenty of my work.” Arthur chuckled.

“Mine ain’t nothin’ compared to yours, darlin’,” he told her, shaking his head, but he met her eyes. “You really wanna see it?”

“One artist to another? I’d love to,” she assured him. He went bright red, but he handed her his journal. She took it reverently, flipping it open and looking with admiration at his sketches of plants, animals and people. “These are wonderful, Arthur.”

“Ah, they’re jus’ some scribbles,” he maintained, still beet red. Sparrow flipped the page to a drawing that, according to the date he had scratched in the corner of the page, had been drawn about a year or so ago.

_“Arthur Morgan!”_ she shouted and he bolted upright, snatching the journal away with a look of deep mortification. Sparrow was cackling though, so he relaxed. “You let me see that,” she demanded, taking the journal from him again. Upon the page was a very realistic, very detailed drawing of her. Naked.

“I kinda forgot I drew that,” came the sheepish response.

“That I doubt,” she laughed, “or you wouldn’t have drawn it. Gets lonely out on the prairie at night, does it?”

“Sorry,” he muttered, having the decency to look ashamed of himself, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

“I don’t think ‘sorry’ will make up for it,” she teased. “Turnabout is fair play. Strip,” she ordered, pulling the pencil from the spine of his journal and flipping to a blank page.

“Naw, now I ain’t gonna do that,” he cackled, trying to get the journal from her, but she held it out of his reach until he tickled her. He had pinned her to the bed and was just about to kiss her when there came a loud knock at the door.

“Arthur! Open up!” came John’s hoarse voice.

“Lord have mercy,” Sparrow muttered, buttoning her blouse where Arthur had been studiously working on stripping her instead of himself.

“What fresh hell is this?” Arthur asked no one in particular as he stood and shoved his union suit and shirt back on, tucking his journal safely away. He reached for the door latch. “What’s the problem, Marston?” he snapped as he swung the door open. In an instant, every knot was back in Arthur’s muscles as he gave a full body flinch at what greeted him.

“Well, hey there, Blacklung,” came Micah’s voice. He had John in a death grip, his gun against his temple. John’s gray eyes met Arthur’s, begging without words for help. Two other men were standing to either side of Micah, their guns pointed at Uncle, the girls, Charles, Javier and Dutch, who were clustered together, waiting with baited breath for Arthur’s next move.


	26. Left and Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the last chapter.

“I said dump it in the _left_ cart, not the right!” Arthur hollered, whirling on the young kid who had just dumped manure in the hay cart. The thin boy bristled at him, half baring his teeth like a wild animal.

“You said dump it in the cart!” he argued, a streak of horseshit down the side of his face making him look particularly untamed.

“The left cart has got the shit in it, the right _had_ perfectly good hay. Now the right one’s got hay covered in shit. Are you stupid or some’n, boah? Don’t know right from left?” Arthur glowered, stepping closer, blue eyes narrowed.

“You go to hell, mister,” the kid snapped, flinging the pitchfork in Arthur’s direction, flicking horseshit up the front of Arthur’s clothing before he darted out of the barn like a scalded cat.

“Oh, you little shit, you c’mere!” Arthur hollered after him. He loped toward the door, malicious intent dripping from his features, his hands balled into fists. He tripped over a foot that had been extended, landing face-first in a puddle that stunk of pig shit. Wiping the dripping muck from the tip of his nose with an equally dirty sleeve, Arthur rose to his full height, one hand sitting on his sidearm. “You better get in there, and finish that job!”

“Or what?” the kid taunted, cocking his jaw outward. “Or you’re gonna shoot me?”

“Or I’m gonna give you a black eye to match that shit-colored hair of yours, you rotten little asswipe,” Arthur snarled, stepping forward threateningly. The two glared at each other, Arthur’s jaw set in a furious expression, the kid’s eyebrows pulled together in a look of pure stubbornness. “I ain’t askin’ again, boah,” Arthur growled. “You get in there or I’ll tell Dutch you was less that useless on this job, you understand me?”

The boy went pale.

“Mebbe he shoulda just let them lynch you,” Arthur growled hatefully as he used his bandana to wipe himself off. It was too far. Arthur knew it as soon as the words slipped out of his mouth, but they were out and there was nothing he could do for it now. The boy’s face fell and he meandered back into the barn, picking up the pitchfork with limbs that looked like they had the weight of the world hanging from them. Awkwardly, Arthur followed him back into the barn, scratching the back of his head. “I, uh, I didn’t mean that,” he mumbled as he worked on brushing the horses stabled within the barn. The kid said nothing in response, but sniffled, dutifully shoveling shit into the correct cart this time. Once it was filled, he struggled to lift the handles up, small arms shaking with effort as he turned the cart and tried pushing it toward the door. “Here,” Arthur said, taking the cart’s handles.

“I got it,” the boy snapped, wrenching control away, but the motion threw the cart off balance and in an instant, it tipped, dumping all of the boy’s hard work back onto the ground. His shoulders rounded in defeat. Arthur sighed, opened his mouth to berate the boy, but thought better of it. Instead, he picked up another pitchfork and wordlessly began helping the boy reload the cart with manure. The kid pointedly ignored Arthur’s gaze, choosing instead to keep his eyes firmly fixed on the task at hand.

“Lemme show ya somethin’,” Arthur said as he positioned himself between the handles of the cart, his back toward it. “See? Put your back to it and you kin use yer hips to keep it steady as ya guide it. And you kin lift with yer legs instead of them scrawny arms of yers. Come on, we’ll dump this and then see about gettin’ some grub.” The boy’s grey eyes met his and he swallowed hard.

“I don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Arthur frowned, beginning to tug the cart toward the waste pile in the distance.

“Know left from right. Or how t’read. Or how to do anythin’ right. I just…I was good at stealin’.”

“Weren’t that good or ya wouldn’t’a got caught,” Arthur laughed, and the boy bristled again. “Well, anyway, yer in luck, ‘cause we’re here to steal, so you’ll get some practice in. Oughta be able to pull it off tonight, it’s a quarter moon, so it’ll be dark, but not too dark to move the herd. It’s your first job for us. Can you get into that big house and back out without gettin’ caught?”

“I think so,” the kid mumbled. Arthur scowled, dumping the cart with a grunt of effort.

“You think so, or you know so?” Arthur pressed. The boy crossed his arms over his chest.

“I can do it,” he insisted.

“Well, alright then. Come on, time for some food.” Arthur dished a large bowl of stew for himself from the cookfire, nodding serenely at the other ranch hands, who tipped their hats in response to the newcomers. Arthur and the boy had only been here a week, but they did as they were told and hadn’t caused any problems. So far.

The boy hung back, clearly hungry, but not wanting to be closer to people than he absolutely had to be. Arthur surveyed the mess area and saw there were no more bowls available. Giving a heaving sigh, he added another ladleful of stew to his own bowl and grabbed an extra spoon. He perched himself on a nearby haybale and patted the spot next to him. “C’mere, kid. Gotta eat somethin’ or yer liable to wither away entirely.”

The boy stared at him, trying to decide his intentions before finally sitting as far away from Arthur as he could get on the bale of hay. Arthur nodded at the bowl.

“The spoon on the right’s yours,” he teased, eyes twinkling with mischief. The boy stood abruptly, starting to storm off, but Arthur caught his wrist, surprised at the strength in it despite its small size. “Now, hang on, I’m just havin’ you on, kid. Sit down.” The boy sat with a huff and Arthur offered him a spoon. “Eat,” he ordered, taking a bite himself. The boy took a large spoonful and swallowed it nearly whole, his eyes widening as he realized how hungry he was. By the time everything was said and done, Arthur got perhaps five heaping spoonfuls of stew before he surrendered the bowl to the hungry kid. The kid had eaten like this, ravenous and without thought to how he got food all over himself in his haste ever since Dutch had shown up with him. Arthur barked a laugh. “Guess they didn’t feed you too well in that orphanage.” The boy stiffened. “You want some more?” Arthur asked, seeing the bottom of the bowl appear. A nod. “Alright.” He got them more, taking another couple of spoonfuls himself before he leaned back, hands folded on his belly in contentment. He surveyed the thin boy, his unkempt black brown hair, his wild gray eyes, his high, thin cheekbones. “You’ll be alright, Marston,” Arthur grumbled. “But ya gotta learn your lefts and rights. And we gotta get you readin’, kid. Just cause you’s an outlaw don’t mean you gotta be a stupid outlaw. I’ve got that covered already,” Arthur told him with a self-deprecating laugh.

“John,” the kid muttered, not looking up from his food.

“What?” Arthur asked. The boy looked up, swallowed a mouthful of stew, wiped his mouth with a dirty arm.

“Prefer to be called ‘John’,” he told Arthur.

“Alright, then. ‘John.’ You at least know yer letters?”

“Some,” John muttered, cheeks reddening with shame.

“Alright, you know ‘L’?” Arthur asked him. He nodded. “Well, look here,” he said holding up both his index fingers and thumbs. “See how your left hand makes a correct ‘L’? That’s a good way of rememberin’ it.” John glowered at him, but out of the corner of his eye, Arthur could see him making the shape of an ‘L’ with his fingers when he thought he wasn’t looking.

Later that evening, Arthur had the horses rounded up, as planned, and he was just beginning to quietly lead the herd out of the stable when a small hand tugged on his calf.

“I got it,” John whispered, a pillowcase full of jewelry and other goods slung over his shoulder. Arthur nodded approvingly.

“Good job, kid. Hop on,” he said, pulling the thin teenager up and in front of him on the horse he was riding. “Let’s get while the gettin’s good,” Arthur muttered. The two led the herd of pilfered horses out of the stable and over the hill, Arthur half giddy from the success of his plan.

Then came the gun shot.

It hit Arthur squarely in the side, a tearing burn that was unmistakably a bullet, making him feel nauseated and light-headed.

“Take…take the reins, kid,” he prompted, letting out a pained whine at the sensation of burning lead in his love handle. “Go right, goddamnit, right! We’ll lose ‘em in the ravine!”

Thundering hoofbeats threatened to catch up with them as John took the reins, Arthur focusing on holding a broad hand to his own side. “Jus…” he slurred “Jus’ get us down river. Hosea…Hosea’ll meet us,” he forced out, taking a hard breath.

“You alright, mister?” John asked him, hands trembling on the reins.

“Arthur,” he blurted, “jus’ call me ‘Arthur’. After all,” he hollered over the din of hoof beats, panicked neighs and gunfire. “Yer my brother now.”

“Brother?” John asked quizzically as he worked to kick Arthur’s horse into full gear with frantic spurs of his heels, the rest of the stolen herd following in a panicked haze alongside them.

“Yeah,” Arthur struggled to continue, “Dutch grabbed me when I was but…” he wheezed a breath, “knee high to a grasshopper. Did the same with you. If we ain’t brothers, I dunno what we is, kid. Now come on, I ain’t dyin’ like this. And I sure as shit ain’t dyin’ because you don’t know left from right. Go left here,” he prodded, digging a thumb into John’s side. John hollered, but he steered the horse in the right direction.

“You know,” John yelled over his shoulder, “you oughta be nicer to me.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Arthur laughed, hand shaking against his side where blood oozed sluggishly from his wound.

“‘Cause otherwise I’d just shove you off this horse and leave you behind,” John taunted, a wild smirk on his face.

“You’re part of the Van der Linde gang now, John Marston. And the Van der Linde gang don’t leave nobody behind.”

\------------------------------------------------

“Marston,” Arthur said lowly, meeting his brother’s wide eyes where he struggled in Micah’s grip. “Go right.”

Immediately, and without question, John jerked hard to the right, wincing as a gun shot fired off next to his ear. Micah crumpled to the ground and two more gun shots went off, one, another of Arthur’s, the other, Sparrow’s shot from a rifle kept behind the door. The group stood, panting, looking at the three bodies that lay cooling on the ground.

“‘Bout time you learned left from right, Marston,” Arthur panted before he started laughing, the end of his sidearm still smoking.

“That ain’t funny, Arthur,” John protested, but he looked deeply relieved.

“Well,” Dutch said, straightening his vest. “I suppose that solves one problem.”

“Good heavens,” Ms. Grimshaw muttered, her hand patting Mary Beth’s shoulder, while Karen pulled a flask from her skirts and took a deep gulp.

“So what do we do now?” Pearson asked stupidly.

“Now?” Dutch asked, a smile breaking out on his calculating face. He met Arthur’s eyes, then John’s, nodding approvingly. “Now, we celebrate. Javier,” he said, turning to the thin Hispanic man. “Go collect Bill and the others. Our Pinkerton problem is solved,” he declared.

Arthur and Sparrow exchanged nervous looks as Sparrow set the rifle back against the cabin wall. The problem was far from solved, but it was, at least partially, remediated.

“Well. So much for rest and avoiding stress,” Sparrow muttered, huffing a small laugh as she jabbed a toe into Micah’s side. The dead gunslinger’s body shook, wobbling where it laid on the ground. “Are we going to bury them?” she asked. Arthur scowled.

“Food for the coyotes, far’s I’m concerned,” he said darkly.

“John Marston!” Abigail hollered, stepping up to the beleaguered young man. “How did you get yourself caught by Micah? No doubt doin’ somethin’ dumb out in the wilderness and not payin’ any–” John cut her off with a forceful kiss, grabbing her face in both hands and pressing his lips hard against hers, his fingers raking up and into her hair, his other hand running down to her ass and shoving her against him so he could roll his hips into hers.

“I just almost died, Abigail,” he blurted after he broke the kiss, which had left her breathless and wide-eyed. “Can’t it wait?” he asked her softly, his hand cupping her jaw in a surprisingly tender motion.

“I suppose,” she muttered, grabbing the side of his vest collar shyly. She frowned and took a step back, studying his face. “Been a while since you kissed me like that.” John blushed and nodded with an air of resignation.

“Been a while since I felt like that,” he admitted. Sparrow grinned and bit her lip.

“If, uh, if the two of you would like the cabin to yourselves, I’d fancy a night under the stars. Arthur?” Arthur scowled, huffing an irritated sigh.

“I mighta known you’d always be a thorn in my side, Marston. John. Enjoy the evenin’,” he said with a tone of supreme sarcasm, giving a mocking bow.

Without giving Arthur any opportunity to change his mind, John tugged Abigail into the cabin and closed the door solidly behind them.


	27. A Father and a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Micah dead, the camp celebrates and a few gang members talk to Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, this is not a particularly action-packed chapter, but it's build up for some stuff happening later on. There is a smut chapter coming in the next day or so.
> 
> Past VanDerMatthews is mentioned very briefly in this chapter. Not important enough to plot to tag it, figured I'd mention it in the notes.

Much as Arthur wanted to be the voice of reason, to insist that no parties happen until they were sure Micah had not told the Pinkertons about the new camp, he found he couldn’t resist the celebration. First, however, he had personally seen to the removal of Micah and his friends’ bodies from the camp around the cabin. He had drug the bodies to a nearby hill, feeling not the least bit of remorse at pissing on the shallow grave he had dumped Micah in.

“Good riddance, you piece of shit,” he muttered, eyeing the guns he had taken off Micah’s body appreciatively and tucking them into his saddlebags to sell later. If Micah’s ghost were haunting him, Arthur knew that would certainly get a rise out of him – his precious guns sold to a nobody and his grave not even marked with a cross.

Stepping back into camp, Arthur was unable to resist the call of comradery and the lightening of the mood for the first time in several weeks. Sparrow gazed at him lovingly from where she sat next to Sadie at the fire that had been built up while he was taking care of the bodies. Arthur was walking toward Sparrow, his eyes on her and her alone when Dutch stepped in front of him. He paused, clenching his jaw and using every ounce of his considerable self-control not to shove his parent-figure aside. But then, Dutch extended his arm, holding in his hand a cold beer, which he bobbed enticingly at Arthur. It was a simple gesture, but from Dutch, it was not insignificant. Dutch never liked beer, always turned his nose up at it and griped at Arthur for drinking it, insisting that good taste should prevail and he should prefer instead fine wines, whiskeys and brandies.

“My boy,” Dutch murmured softly. “I…” With gargantuan effort, Dutch swallowed and tipped his head forward, not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I was wrong. About Micah.”

“You was wrong about a lot of things, Dutch.” Dutch met his eyes now, his expression hurt, but he nodded slightly. Arthur sighed and reached out a hand, grabbing the neck of the bottle, which Dutch still kept a grip on.

“Can you forgive me, son?” Dutch asked with his usual pausing, grandiose tone.

“I don’t know, Dutch,” Arthur answered, tugging the beer from his hand. “But I’ll take the beer. It’s a start, at least. I’d believe you more if you’d put in a good word with Javier and Bill. They’re both still half-convinced I was plannin’ to murder you in yer sleep,” he drawled with a sigh, using his knife to slice the wax that held the beer cork in place. He took a deep swallow, gazing out at the camp, surveying friends and loved ones. Glancing at Dutch, Arthur heaved a sigh, putting his hand on Dutch’s shoulder. Surprised, Dutch whipped his gaze to him, frowning. “You know I was always with you, Dutch. I just…I’m tired of running. What we’s runnin’ from…there ain’t no escape. You know that. We can’t keep stealin’ and runnin’ and hopin’ it don’t catch up with us. ‘Cause it will. I don’t want to sprint to my grave, Dutch. What Sparrow’s offerin’…it ain’t no small thing.”

“I know, son. I know. But I still just want to try, to push for change! I still think this country can be…greater than it is.”

“Hmm,” Arthur removed his hand from Dutch’s shoulder and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the case, Dutch. I think mebbe people can be better. But an idea? It ain’t nothin’ but a broken dream. Nothin’ we ever do is gonna change how things is. Nothin’ we say, no amount of rich fellers we screw over will change the fact that folk will always find a way to hurt one another, Dutch. We ain’t no diff’rent, you and I. We’ve lied to ourselves for years, sayin’ we was bein’ better and ‘fightin’ for a better society.’ But…” Arthur scoffed, “here I am dyin’ ‘cause I beat a good man to death. For money. That sure as shit don’t make me better than anyone, Dutch. I could’a stole that same money from a wealthy, evil man and it still don’t make me better.”

“You are starting to sound like Hosea too,” Dutch muttered.

“And so what if I do?!” Arthur snapped, drawing the gaze of several of the gang members. Dutch’s soft brown eyes met Arthur’s, his face a mask of grief.

“That wasn’t an accusation, son. It was a compliment.” With that, the older man turned and walked out into the night, pausing at the edge of the camp and staring up into the heavens.

“You okay, Arthur?” Charles asked him, walking up slowly, still favoring his wound. Arthur hummed a noncommittal noise, sitting down on a storage box and regarding his boots.

“I don’t know what the plan is next, Charles,” he began, taking a drink of his beer with a contemplative gaze at his friend, “but I know my time is comin’. I’ll fight it off, long as I can, but ‘ventually…look, if I die before Sparrow…will you…?”

“Of course, Arthur. I’ll see she’s taken care of. How are you, my friend?” he asked again, genuine care in his tone and on his face, his chocolate eyes glittering in the light of the nearby camp fire.

“I’ll be better once I’ve attended to all my business. And once we have someplace to go, more permanently. Sparrow, she’s got a plan, I think, but she’s keepin’ it close to the chest. She knows as well as I do any plan we come up with we gotta make Dutch think it’s his own.”

“If there’s anything I can do,” Charles began.

“I want you to take care of yerself, Charles,” Arthur told him seriously. “I want you to do what’s best for you, and John and Abigail and that boy. Anyone else who wants to stick by can, but I know you’ve always been reasonable, Charles. And I know you’ll stay that way.”

“Why don’t you come and join us over by the fire?” Sparrow asked, approaching. Arthur smiled and extended an arm in invitation so she sat on his knee.

“I was enjoyin’ the quiet,” he told her, tipping his head toward the camp fire where Uncle was playing a lively tune on his banjo, the only thing he seemed good for these days, Arthur thought with a chuckle.

“Come on, love of mine. It’s time for celebration. We’ll stay a few days to be sure the camp isn’t compromised, but from what I overheard, any interaction with the Pinkertons would have gotten Micah hung after that last failure of his,” she laughed. With a gentle tug, she pulled Arthur to his feet, extending her other hand to Charles, who did not take it, but did follow. Gathered around the campfire were Javier, Uncle, Abigail, John, Pearson and the rest of the camp. The only ones absent were Strauss, who was doing paperwork in his tent, and Dutch, who was still on the outskirts of camp, smoking a cigar. Arthur sat and again pulled Sparrow into his lap, entwining his arms around her waist and holding her close. She covered his hands with her own and gave them a squeeze, winking at him over her shoulder.

Uncle changed the tune he was playing, slowing so that Javier could play along, having recognized the song. Sparrow opened her mouth and began to sing along.

“♪_I am a poor wayfaring stranger travelling through this world alone. _♪ _There is no sickness, no toil nor danger in that bright land to which I go. _♪_ I’m going there to see my Father, I’m going there no more to roam. I’m only going over Jordan, I’m only going over home. _♪ _I know dark clouds will gather ‘round me. I know my way is hard and steep, yet beauteous fields lie just before me, where god’s redeemed and angels keep…_♪”

The rest of the group who knew the words joined her, singing along, especially Abigail, whose clear voice was nearly as melodious as Sparrow’s. John was staring at her from across the fire, entranced, a fact that neither Sparrow nor Arthur missed, giving one another a significant glance. After all they had been through, John was finally starting to see what had been right in front of him the whole time.

\--

“You were going to leave us, weren’t you?”

Arthur heaved a massive sigh. That was starting to be harder to do here recently, so he also gave a massive cough, annoyed when he nearly got piss on the front of his pants. He had been standing behind a large oak tree taking a leak, not expecting Javier to confront him amid all the celebration.

“Javier…Dutch was…it was complicated. You know that. He thought I was the rat, for whatever godforsaken reason. So yeah, I thought about it,” he admitted, tucking himself back in his pants and stepping around the tree to meet Javier’s gaze. It was softer than he had been anticipating.

“I…” Javier’s mustache wobbled as he opened and closed his mouth for a moment, seemingly trying to decide what to say. “I thought he was losing his mind,” he murmured finally. “But I didn’t know what else to do. I thought about running…I…I hated you for a while. Thought you were going to make the escape I couldn’t.” He shook his head, adjusting his necktie with a nervous motion, the scar on his neck momentarily visible. “I’m sorry, Arthur. For doubting your loyalty.” Arthur huffed.

“That doubt wasn’t entirely misplaced, Javier. Dutch, he…I think he’s realized there’s no place for us anymore. And no amount of money or time or runnin’ is gonna fix that. We either settle down or we go extinct.” There was a long pause where Javier just studied Arthur’s face.

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Arthur scowled at that, opened his mouth to comment, but Javier just shook his head. “I don’t know, Arthur. I’m thinking about trying to go home.”

“They’ll hang you, you’ve said it before.”

“Because they won’t hang me here?” Javier pointed out, giving a bitter laugh.

“Well. I won’t stop you if you go. And I’ll make your case with Dutch if that’s what you want.”

“I want things to go back to the way they were, _hermano,_” Javier told him in a grieved tone, slipping away back toward the festivities in camp.

Arthur leaned heavily against the tree, taking a deep, steadying breath. Everything had gone to hell, and while things were looking up, they still weren’t in the clear. He wondered, wiping a weary hand over his face, if the gang had actually changed, or if it had always been this way and he was just too blind to see it.

The tired outlaw spotted Dutch silhouetted in the distance at the edge of camp and made his way over, tucking his hands in his pant loops.

“Look, I…I got more business to attend to soon, Dutch,” he said as he approached, unsure now where he stood with a man he had once loved like a father and a friend in one. “I’ll stay for a bit, but I need to wrap things up. Before…”

“I know,” Dutch whispered, voice quiet, pained. Arthur glanced at him. Dutch’s brows were furrowed and his face was etched with grief. “All I did…everything I did…it was to keep this family safe,” he ground out. Arthur ground his teeth, his fists clenching in the material of his too-loose pants. Dutch met Arthur’s eyes and his voice broke as he said, “My boy…my son. Would that I could be in your place.”

“You said that before. About Mac. About Jenny and Davy up there in them mountains,” Arthur argued, face hardening in the light of Dutch’s usual bullshit.

“I meant it then, and I mean it now,” Dutch insisted adamantly. “I have been about things in…the wrong way, but I do care, Arthur. I do.”

“Okay then, Dutch,” Arthur told him, forcing his tone to soften. “I’ll catch you later.”

\------------

“What are you doing out of bed?” Sparrow groused, grinding the heels of her hands into her eyes and giving an almighty yawn.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Arthur told her, coughing behind a fist. “Made some coffee.”

“You need tea.”

“I need a lotta thangs,” he drawled. She could see he had his journal in his hands, was fiddling with his pencil.

“That better not be another nude drawing of me,” she teased him, but he looked grim. He held up journal so she could see it. The thin-cheeked man drawn in exquisite detail was not familiar, but she could tell from the tremble in Arthur’s hand as he held the drawing that he was significant.

“Hosea,” he clarified. “Thinkin’ about him a lot recently. Wonderin’ what he woulda done. Wonderin’ what he’d have to say about all this…mess. He was good for Dutch. I didn’t begrudge him his wife Bessie, but…well. Things were better when they were a pair.” Sparrow’s eyebrows rose.

“They were together…? Romantically?” Arthur chuckled, pouring both himself and Sparrow a cup of coffee.

“Yeah. It was all kept real hush hush, for reasons you already know, I imagine, same reason I never, er…propositioned Albert or any other man. They don’t take kindly to sodomy in most places. Law seems to take issue with a lotta things that ain’t nobody’s business but yer own. Policin’ love. It’s a damn joke,” he scoffed. “Anyway…Hosea and Dutch were somethin’ else. Hosea was the brains of the operation, but all the ideas, all the plans came from Dutch’s mouth. Hosea…he had a way of outsmarting anybody, even Dutch. And he had a way of softening his anger too. But then he met Bessie, and, well, you know how Dutch is.”

“Dutch met someone too?” Arthur’s cheeks burned red and he laughed, nodding.

“Dutch met _several_ people after Bessie started comin’ around. Nearly got himself hung in Valdosta for gettin’ sucked off in an alley.” Sparrow nearly spat out the coffee she had just drunk, instead having a coughing fit of her own.

“Well, I guess now I think about it, it doesn’t surprise me. He does seem to like the younger ones. Overheard him talking to Mary Beth the other day.” She shuddered and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“You can’t beat a dog for bein’ a dog, I guess,” Arthur laughed. “Mary Beth’s a smart gal, she’ll be alright.” There was a pause. “I need to get back on the road.”

“You need rest,” Sparrow told him in response to the abrupt change of subject. “Your symptoms have been getting worse. If you keep pushing yourself, you won’t be able to get everything done. Give yourself a week. Take it easy. Who knows, maybe you could fight it off if you actually got some rest,” she said hopefully and Arthur nearly crushed his coffee mug in his grip, giving her a furious look.

“Don’t. Don’t do that.” Sparrow sighed, and pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his big chest, which was still large and muscled even with the weight he had lost.

“Come on. Come back to bed,” Sparrow begged.

“Alright, then,” Arthur acquiesced, too tired to argue anyway.

With her head nestled on his chest, Sparrow could hear the steady beat of his heart, so much surer and stronger than her own. Like some bad cosmic joke, she breathed easily as her heart stuttered along on its way and Arthur’s heart pounded out a steady rhythm while his lungs rasped and crackled drawing in air. She stroked along the line of his jaw gently, watching his eyelids flutter slightly as sleep overtook him. His long nose and sharp jaw stood out in stark relief against the light of the dying fire within the cabin.

Through the shutters, she could hear that everyone in camp was either asleep, or guarding the area in silence. Nearby, a whippoorwill sang its sorrowful song, and an owl hooted to its mate, which answered distantly. There is a song for dawn, and a song for dusk but amid that chorus only the steady _lubdublubdublubdub_ of Arthur’s heart mattered to Sparrow.


	28. Don't Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A recovery and a proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got waaaaay longer than I intended it to and I'm still not happy with it, but here it is.

Since Arthur had dealt with Micah and his men and Sparrow had offered her financial assistance, the dynamics of the camp had shifted. The gang members now made sure the two were comfortable and cared for. Chocolate bars appeared frequently on the windowsill of the cabin, likely Ms. Grimshaw’s doing, and ingredients for the medicinal teas Sparrow made for herself and Arthur never had to be found – they always appeared in the little kitchen, freely offered. Sparrow thought maybe Uncle or Pearson was responsible for this, but she couldn’t be sure.

John, usually block-headed and insensitive, had lately taken to making sure that no one approached the cabin if Arthur and Sparrow were asleep inside. Karen began to offer part of her daily bottle of wine to Sparrow, who generally didn’t partake, but she did appreciate the gesture. Abigail sewed Arthur a new shirt, tailoring it so it fit his chest and waist nicely. Tilly, for once, let Arthur beat her in dominoes, her dark honey-colored eyes glittering with mischief at the surprised expression on his face when he won.

Even Dutch was being patient and gentle with Arthur, not pushing him constantly since they had talked the day Micah was put in the ground. The older man had taken to checking in, lightly patting Arthur’s shoulder whenever he approached him at the campfire.

“How’re you feelin’ today, son?” he would ask, and whether he actually cared or not, at least he asked. Arthur seemed to grow stronger, and he looked better, eating more and coughing less as he took it easy, per Sparrow’s insistent instructions.

There had always been an unspoken rule in camp to let Arthur sleep wherever he happened to lie down, and it was more strictly adhered to now. The man did so much work for the gang throughout his life, no one begrudged him the occasional snooze leaned back against a tree with his hat covering his face or sprawled out on the grass with his arm slung across his eyes.

Arthur was snoring softly, lying on a colorful cotton blanket Sparrow had spread beneath a large tree nearby the cabin. The weather was nice, the sun bright and warm, its gentle rays sprinkling points of light over his body where he slept, snuffling occasionally.

The rest of the gang was working, some darning socks, others cleaning guns or brushing horses. Charles was sitting on a stump near Arthur, carving notches in new arrows he had made. Sparrow kept catching him sneaking glances at Arthur, his face going soft as he watched Arthur murmur in his sleep, as he ran his gaze over skin etched with lines of exhaustion and stared at the rising and falling of Arthur’s chest like he was personally responsible for its continuation.

“I consider you a good friend, Charles. You know that, right?” Sparrow asked as she worked on sharpening a pair of rusty scissors Pearson used for cutting leather. Charles drug his gaze away from Arthur to meet Sparrow’s eyes.

“We’ve known one another a while now. And you’re with Arthur. Of course we’re friends,” he said, voice questioning, brow furrowed.

“Alright then. Charles…can I ask a favor of you?” Charles frowned before he answered.

“That depends,” he admitted. Sparrow chuckled.

“That’s fair. Well. If…if I die before Arthur…will you…will you make sure he’s alright? Make sure he takes care of himself?” Charles stared at her evenly.

“That’s hardly a favor, Sparrow. I’d do that anyway,” he said, voice soft. Sparrow swallowed. 

“Alright then. Thank you, Charles.”

\-----------------

From their investigation, it seemed that Micah had not had an opportunity to tell anyone about the location of the newest camp. He had apparently followed John back from where the young man had been scouting for leads, a fact neither Arthur nor Dutch had let John forget, berating him about it constantly, though Arthur wasn’t as hard on him as he could have been. Regardless, no Pinkertons showed up at the camp, and in a few weeks, Arthur was ready to be back on the road.

Sparrow had a thick packet of papers tucked away in her bag, also eager to be on her way.

“What’s all that?” Arthur asked, curious.

“Letters to various senators and other people in power my father used to be acquainted with when he was still alive. I wrote these in the vain hope of trying to stop what’s happening to the Wapiti people since some of Dutch’s hare-brained ideas have done them more harm than good. This may not make a difference, but at least I can try. The way they’re being treated by the army and by private business owners…it isn’t right.”

“There ain’t much left that’s right about this country,” Arthur commented dryly, reading one of the addresses on her letters. “Leviticus Cornwall? Oh Christ,” he muttered.

“Don’t start. Like I said, it may do nothing. But at least I’m trying something. Besides, with all those rumors we’ve spread, perhaps Mr. Cornwall won’t have the resources to run the Wapiti off their land.”

“That I _sincerely_ doubt,” Arthur murmured, handing the letter back. “But it’s worth a try, I guess. Come on, girl. Let’s get.”

They climbed onto their horses, making their way out of the thick woods that protected the cabin from discovery, bidding John, Sadie and the others adieu. First making their way north and then east, they spent the next two days riding to the Balfour’s cabin, pleased to find them both alive and well.

“Those shooting lessons you gave us made all the difference, Mr. Morgan,” Cal Balfour told him, shaking his hand with a wide grin. “Charlotte here has become quite the hand with a rifle. Better than me, even.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she said demurely, her cheeks going a bit red. “I’ve managed to make some progress on my manuscript finally. Thanks again for the contact at the publishing company, Mrs. Callaghan.” Arthur’s head whipped around to glare at Sparrow.

“Even _she_ knew about yer publishing company before I did?” he asked softly, brows lowered in irritation. Sparrow looked chagrined and shrugged. Arthur rolled his eyes, but let it go.

The two stayed for dinner, Sparrow helping to wash up and chatting jovially with Charlotte while Arthur awkwardly made small talk with Cal, with whom he had very little in common.

“Unfortunately we can’t stay the night this time,” Sparrow told them, much to Arthur’s relief, since Cal had just asked,

“So, Arthur, how long have you and Sparrow been married?”

Arthur preferred wide open spaces to houses full of people anyway.

As they stepped into the cool evening air, Sparrow noticed, her heart thudding in her chest, that Arthur was looking better recently, less pale, more contented. She had made sure he ate at regular intervals while they travelled, shoving peas or crackers or even cookies down his throat whenever his illness made him want to skip meals. Frequently, she forced Arthur to drink a tea her father had taught her the recipe for, a foul but effective concoction brewed with willow bark, propolis, rosemary, garlic and thyme. Helping people, and the relief at having Micah gone seemed to bolster Arthur’s wellbeing. Sparrow refused to get her hopes up, but, well, it was hard not to when she saw the color rise in his cheeks when she stroked his arm while sitting next to him at the campfire, when she felt his throbbing erection pressing against her butt cheek late in the night, when he awoke her by nibbling at her earlobe, eyes glittering with starlight.

“You awake?” he croaked in a groggy voice soaked with lust. She grinned.

“You know full-well you woke me up, Arthur Morgan,” she answered, her voice sleepy but interested.

“Well, since you _are_ awake…” He jutted his hips forward and backward to rub the head of his cock against her ass hopefully. She chuckled, pushing down her soft sleep pants to give him access. He groaned, palming a hand over one of her ass cheeks and kissing her ear as he did so. Arthur rolled her onto her stomach and laid on top of her, sliding himself inside of her with a slick, wet noise and a moan that made Sparrow shiver with desire. She reached a hand back behind her to touch his chin where it rested against her shoulder. With deep, agonizingly slow movements, Arthur pressed in and out of her, his hips pushing hard against her ass as his weight smashed her into the bed roll, his hands flat on the ground on each side of her ribs, his mouth open in a gasp as he slid in and out of her dripping slit, pressing breathless sounds from Sparrow as he rubbed against delicate tissue.

“I love you,” she whispered, “I love you, I love you.” Arthur freed a hand and cupped it under her jaw, turning her head so he could kiss her deeply, his thick pink tongue darting into her mouth and lapping there, tasting her and allowing her to taste him. She squirmed beneath him and turned over onto her back so that he pressed into her now from the front, his hands cradling her head and his mouth seeking hers. Sparrow adjusted her legs so they were slung around his waist, her ankles crossed at his back, pulling him insistently deeper, his balls rolling against her ass as they rocked into one another.

“I love you too, darlin’,” he murmured. “With all that I have.” Sparrow looked at him in the starlight, his profile etched in soft light, his long golden hair a subtle haze around his face.

“You look beautiful,” she whispered. Arthur chuckled, his whole body vibrating against her when he did. He pushed his hips forward so he was sunk fully into her and kissed her again.

“Beautiful, huh?” he smirked, eyes glittering in the light of the Milky Way band spilling delicately into their tent flap.

“Handsome, if you prefer,” she breathed as his mouth sought and found a nipple through her night shirt. He suckled at her tender flesh, his hips drawing slow circles, grinding within her until she moaned, her walls tightening around him as she climaxed beneath his touch, her toes curling in ecstasy behind his back, her calves tugging him closer so that he stayed buried in her, pausing for a moment just to gaze down at her in adoration.

“I prefer to tell you how gorgeous you are,” he whispered softly, holding her gaze as he continued the slow roll of his heavy hips. “I prefer to tell you that you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Well, now that’s just not true,” she argued. He huffed.

“What?”

“You’ve seen a Golden Eagle. You’ve seen a Whooping Crane. You’ve seen Eastern Meadowlarks, and Great Egrets, and Mountain Bluebirds.”

“And still none of them is as beautiful as you,” he insisted, kissing her deeply again, putting nearly his whole weight on her in an effort to be as close to her as possible. Arthur tasted like peppermint, chewing tobacco and coffee. What he didn’t taste like, what he hadn’t tasted like in weeks, was blood.

“Are you alright?” Sparrow asked him as he slowed his steady thrusting rhythm.

“Just enjoyin’ the moment…tryin’ to…prolong things,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “I’m feelin’ good. Real good, actually. You’re a remedy for all ills, darlin’. Are _you_ okay?”

“Never better,” she told him, running her hands around his waist to grasp at his butt cheeks, squeezing the hard muscle there and tilting her hips up with slow grinding motions that matched his.

With a moan, Arthur arched his back and filled her with his release, groaning her name and tugging her hair as he pressed, pressed, pressed inside of her, resolute and powerful again, as he had been months ago, before he was ill.

_Perhaps,_ she thought. _No. Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t give yourself hope._ Something within her chest fluttered and she gasped. _Don’t do that either. Don’t. Don’t._

\--------------------

Arthur and Sparrow worked their way around his previous haunts, repaying old debts, checking in on old friends. The two of them saved an old one-legged veteran hunter, first from his high strung run-away horse, then from a massive boar he had hunted with the two of them tagging along. They freed a small settlement from a crooked false prophet and found an herbalist rare plants for his research. Together, they wrote a fond letter to Albert, Sparrow insisting on sending some of Arthur’s drawings to him as well, requesting that they be published with her work. They had occasionally checked in with Dutch and the others during their travels, but never stayed in camp longer than a night or two. Arthur would always make a point to check up on Jack to ensure that John was spending time with him. And amid all of this, Sparrow noted, Arthur looked less and less sick, less and less like he could die at any moment.

Leaving Arthur behind at the camp for the day, Sparrow rode to the post office in Blackwater where she had seen an advertisement more than a year before, praying it was still there now that she was interested in what it had been trying to sell.

“WANTED,” read the notice, still hanging on the post office wall, all crisp white paper and clear black letters, “settlers to occupy the deeper reaches of Central Canada. Agricultural experience preferred, but not required. Seeking groups of at least fifteen to establish new settlements as soon as possible. Land free! Housing cost to be negotiated upon application.” The last line of the poster nearly made Sparrow laugh out loud: “The faint-hearted need not apply.” Ignoring that warning, Sparrow had filled out the application, hands shaking, praying again that she still had enough money tucked away to see the group safely to Canada, and to cover their expenses for the foreseeable future. She was wealthy, that much was true, very wealthy, but she knew how the gang chewed through resources and she worried she wouldn’t have enough to keep them out of trouble once they had resettled. Nearly two dozen people required a lot of money to keep healthy and happy. She approached the post office teller, who looked at her nonchalantly.

“Husband didn’t feel like goin’ into town to mail the letters, eh?” he asked, obvious bored small talk.

“No,” Sparrow responded. “He finds his neck gets a bit sore whenever he rides into Blackwater,” she told him, smirking at her own private joke, though the thought of Arthur being caught and hung sent a swift bolt of terror through her, so her smile faded. The teller didn’t seem to notice, just jabbed her thick application into the appropriate slot and drawled,

“Anythin’ else today?”

“Just these,” she responded, handing him the bundle of letters addressed to various senators and businessmen in the hopes of helping the Wapiti.

“That’ll be five dollars,” he said after he weighed all the letters and sorted them.

“Here you are,” she said, handing him the cash, breathless, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Have a nice day now, you hear?”

“Yes, yes sir, you too,” she bid him, rushing out to her horse and thundering back toward camp, her spirits higher than they had been in months.

\----------------------

Arthur had always been an observant person. It was part of his draw when Sparrow had first let him travel with her as her guide. He could spot a Blue-grey gnatcatcher from a half mile off with those piercing eyes of his. There wasn’t much he missed. So, it was too much to hope that he wouldn’t notice Sparrow getting up early one morning and stepping away from their tent to unfold the neatly creased paper she had received from Sir Clifford Sifton’s secretary a week before to read it again.

_“Dear Miss Callaghan,_

_Our office was pleased to receive your application for a homestead for yourself and your research group. We have, indeed, heard of your work having used your field guide a great many times while surveying._

_A five-hundred hectare plot is available in the area you requested, and housing costs may be covered with a five-year loan if necessary._

_However, due to the fact that you are a woman applying for this land, we would require the signature of a husband or other male guardian to proceed. Please enclose documents (eg marriage certificate) indicating which male relative or spouse we may grant the bill of sale and we may proceed with your proposal._

_Best,_

_Mr. Wilson Harris_

_Secretary, Office of the Minister of the Interior”_

Stomach clenching, Sparrow bent over a bush, grasping at her belly and trying to vomit, though there was nothing in her stomach to heave up. To have come so close, only to fail. The thought of having to admit that she still didn’t have a viable plan sent another wave of nausea through her.

Arthur appeared behind her, rubbing his eyes sleepily and giving a drawn-out yawn, but he looked concerned.

“You alright? Is it your heart?” Sparrow’s face was pale, her eyes watery with unfallen tears.

“I, um, I’m fine. Must have been something I ate,” she lied, color rising in her cheeks when she did so, blinking rapidly.

“Uh huh. Well, you and I both ate the same fish you cooked last night and I ain’t bent double over a bush,” he said skeptically, taking her hand. He kissed her lightly, but she tugged away, wrinkling her nose.

“Arthur! I just threw up.”

“You just made a lotta noise is all. Besides, it don’t matter to me none, sweetheart,” he told her, running the pad of his thumb over her thick bottom lip in a tender motion.

“It should,” she argued. “I could be sick. Contagious.” Arthur snorted.

“I think that’s the least of my worries, darlin’. Come on, what’s goin’ on wi’ch you?” Sparrow deliberately avoided his eye. “Sparrow,” he murmured, touching her face and tipping her chin up so she met his eyes. Her own were swimming with tears now, one finally slipping free and dripping onto his hand where he held her face.

“I, um,” her voice was shaking so much she doubted she could be understood. “Here,” she finally blurted, handing him the letter. He took it, frowning.

Arthur’s blue-green eyes darted over the paper at least three times and Sparrow watched a blush rise high in his cheeks, stared at him as he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck nervously. At last, he folded the letter and held it in his hands, his gaze focused resolutely on a spot about ten feet in front of his boots.

For a moment Arthur’s face was blank, totally absent of expression. In the next instant, he was smirking, his eyebrows high, his eyes bright.

“Sounds like you’re lookin’ for a husband now, Miss Callaghan,” Arthur drawled in an amused tone. Sparrow hardly noticed, swallowing with an audible click, and avoiding looking at him, miserable that all her plans to save the gang had gone awry over something foolish like property ownership.

“I was so close to getting the gang what we needed, but…” Arthur went beet red, clenching his jaw.

“You and I both know you ain’t that dumb, darlin’,” he chuckled. Sparrow folded her arms over her chest, frowning at him.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. Arthur stepped toward her and took her hand.

“I mean,” he said in a voice as soft as summer rain, “I’d marry ya. If that’s what you want.”

“Arthur…” He released her hand, lowering his head, expression deeply hurt.

“Nevermind,” he whispered, thinking her tone was a rejection of his proposal.

“Arthur.” Sparrow’s tone was firm and mildly irritated. He glanced up, looking angry and a little confused. “Of course I want to marry you, but I don’t want to force you into something you don’t want. I don’t want you to marry me just because I need your signature on some paperwork.” Arthur scowled, turned and walked a short distance away from her, putting his hands on his hips, shifting from foot to foot. Sparrow stood awkwardly, unsure what to say. Turning back to her finally, Arthur shook his head at her, and the look of pain on his sharp features was so profound it was painful to look at.

“You thank I only wanna marry you for the paperwork?!” Arthur brusquely cut her off with a hand when she opened her mouth to reply. “Naw. I wanna marry you because I love you. I wanna marry you because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I wanna marry you,” he said, taking a step toward her with every reason he listed, counting them off on his fingers and forcing himself to lower his voice, which had risen nearly to a shout, “because you’re smart. Because you’re a goddamn fine shot. Because you’ve never once asked me to be somethin’ I ain’t, and you’ve never judged me for what I is. I wanna marry you because you’re the light in my darkness, somethin’ that gave me hope when I thought all hope was lost. I wanna marry you, Sparrow Callaghan, because you’re the love of my life. I only regret it took me this long to realize all of that, and that when I tell you I wanna spend the rest of my life with you, it ain’t nearly gonna be long enough because darlin’, I’d stay with you for eternity, if you’d let me,” and at this last, he was right in front of her, blue eyes earnest. “When you met me you told me you weren’t lookin’ for a husband, so I ain’t never asked. But now you’re lookin’, so now I’m askin’. Will you marry me, Sparrow Callaghan?”

Stunned, Sparrow found herself at a loss for words, her mouth hanging open for a moment dumbly. Finally, her wits returned, and she broke into an enormous grin.

“Of course I’ll marry you, Arthur Morgan,” she told him, wrapping her arms up around his neck and letting him lift her a little ways off the ground as he held her, her ribs nearly crushed in the tight embrace.

“I love you,” he growled, smashing their lips together triumphantly. “I love you, darlin’. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, realizing that as he panted in excitement, there was only the barest hint of a crackle in his lungs.

Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe it was okay to hope. Blinking away tears, she stared up at a tall oak tree above them, realizing that the tree was filled with dozens of White-throated Sparrows all singing their sweet song. Within her pocket, she clutched the letter, feeling herself trembling with excitement and giddiness. Freedom would be theirs, and soon, and for a price Sparrow could easily afford. As Arthur held her close, she listened to the singing of her familiars: “Oh sweet Canada, Canada, Canada,” they sang, and hope overwhelmed her.


	29. Keeping Up Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Sparrow celebrate before reuniting with a face from the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this chapter is loooong. I'd apologize, but I'm not sorry. It's also very, very cheesy, but I needed some affectionate, incredibly cheesy Arthur POV in my life, so I wrote it. Sue me. (Please don't, I don't have any money.) There is smut in this chapter, but it is not particularly explicit, just very lovey-dovey.

“You do know we didn’t _have_ to come to Saint Denis to celebrate, right? It’s actually quite dangerous for us to be here,” Sparrow pointed out, looking over both shoulders to see if anyone was paying attention to them where they were seated in the back corner of the extravagant restaurant Arthur had insisted on bringing her to. Arthur, clearly unused to the crisp-starched collar of the fancy shirt he was wearing, tugged at it with a wide grin.

“Aw, come on. We gotta do somethin’ nice for a change. Hell, maybe this time I won’t get picked up by a bounty hunter,” he joked. Sparrow flushed.

“Keep your voice down, Arthur,” she said urgently in a squeaky voice. She still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of travelling while wanted. Though no one had yet found a bounty poster with her likeness on it yet, she was certain it was only a matter of time given everything she had done for the gang, including killing a few men. Arthur leaned over the table, eyebrows pulled together in an expression of deep amusement.

“Darlin’, you are actin’ way more suspicious than I am. Relax.” He took her hand. “Nobody will recognize me from Adam,” he promised, curling the ridiculous mustache he had paid the barber to trim and style, much to Sparrow’s amusement. Arthur looked surprisingly dapper with that curled handlebar mustache and a felt hat adorned with a blue jay feather. His waist coat was a deep navy blue and his pinstriped pants hugged his backside and his thighs in all the right places. Sparrow forced herself to take a deep breath, to calm and try to just enjoy herself, but she still felt on edge at every approach of their waiter, who brought them a bottle of champagne and two thin fluted glasses. Arthur thanked the man and picked up his glass. “I, uh, don’t really know how to toast,” he admitted, blushing. Sparrow chuckled.

“It all calls for more pomp and circumstance than is really necessary,” she confided with a smirk. “To us,” she murmured, tipping her glass gingerly so that it struck the edge of Arthur’s with a pleasant _ting_ that was silenced when they brought the glasses to their lips.

Arthur choked a bit and Sparrow’s stomach dropped, but she calmed when she saw that he was laughing.

“Them bubbles tickle,” he chuckled, wiping his mouth crudely with the sleeve of his jacket. Sparrow giggled.

“I suppose you’d prefer whiskey, then?”

“You know I’d always prefer whiskey,” he admitted, taking another sip and trying, poorly, to stifle a burp. A snoody couple at the table nearby gave them a nasty look that just made Sparrow giggle louder.

“I had forgotten how much I hated all this,” she told him. “All the stormy civility. All the snottiness. All the…” she squirmed, adjusting her skirts over her legs and sucking in a breath with difficulty in her corset, “ridiculous clothing.” Arthur’s eyes slithered lasciviously over her hourglass form, resting on her cleavage with a lustful gaze.

“I think I like the ridiculous clothing _you_ have to wear,” he grinned, looking quite the Lothario with that silly damned mustache of his. Sparrow glowered at him.

“You would. This corset makes me feel like an anchovy stuffed in a tin. You, meanwhile, look dapper without having to sacrifice the ability to breathe…” There was an awkward silence that Arthur broke with a laugh.

“Well,” he drawled, coughing once, though Sparrow thought it might have been on purpose, “you look real nice.”

“Thank you, dear,” Sparrow murmured.

“At least you don’t hafta shave to look nice,” Arthur pointed out after a moment, scratching his very clean shaven jaw with a big hand after he twirled the ends of the mustache for at least the dozenth time in the last hour. The scar on his chin stuck out like a sore thumb with all of his stubble shaved away, two puckered lines that shined slightly in the light of the chandeliers above them.

“I never did ask,” Sparrow commented after she had taken another swallow of champagne, “where did you get _that_ scar?”

“You know, not every scar I’ve got has a story,” Arthur countered, the tips of his ears going red. Sparrow leaned forward, face predatory.

“Oh, now I definitely need to hear this one,” she insisted, hands grasping her glass with an intensity that made Arthur lean back in his chair.

“It was nothin’. Not interestin’.”

“Uh huh,” Sparrow scoffed. “What happened?” she pressed, amused.

“Does the lovely couple know what they would like to order this evening?” their waiter suddenly asked, appearing next to them and making Sparrow jump slightly. Relieved that he had been saved from sharing the story, Arthur flashed the waiter a friendly smile.

“I’ll have the prime rib, please.”

“A fine choice, sir. Would you like potatoes or asparagus with that?”

“‘Sparagus, please,” Arthur drawled, ignoring the snotty look that spread over the waiter’s face at his country accent.

“And you, miss?”

“Hmm, the croque Auvergnat, please.”

“Very good, miss. Anything else?” Sparrow saw Arthur staring longingly at the bar, specifically at the top-shelf whiskey.

“Two of your best whiskeys, please,” she told him. The waiter raised his brow, but said nothing, just nodded and took the menus.

“Now what in God’s name is a croak ooh ver nah?” Arthur asked, nose crinkling. Sparrow chuckled.

“Not so fast, mister. I wanna know the story behind that scar.”

“Damn,” Arthur muttered, reddening and wiping a hand self-consciously over it. He cleared his throat, tipped back the last of his champagne, poured another glass and knocked it back too, letting loose a burp and a sigh. Sparrow stared, unsure now whether she should even have asked. “You have to promise – naw, you have to _swear_ that what I am about to tell you, you ain’t never gonna tell Marston,” Arthur implored. Surprised and even more curious than before, Sparrow nodded.

“I won’t tell him.”

“Or Abigail,” Arthur added. “Or anyone else for that matter,” he said with finality.

“Fine, though why on earth it could be so important that no one know…”

“It was a wolf that got me,” he blurted finally, interrupting her. Sparrow sat silently for a moment, trying to decide if he was being serious and if there was more he was about to say before she started laughing. Not laughing, so much as cackling, drawing the attention of several patrons before she slapped a hand over her mouth and gestured for him to continue. Arthur looked decidedly put out at her amusement, but she had heard Arthur give John grief about his scars so many times she thought that perhaps it was a habit for him at this point, a knee-jerk response to seeing John’s damaged cheek and stuttered upper lip.

“You tease John about those scars every time you see him, Arthur,” she laughed, ignoring his glower.

“I know. Which is why you can’t tell him.”

“Well, how did it happen? Stranded on a mountainside, like John?”

Arthur let out a long, martyred sigh, scratching behind his head, mussing his styled hair.

“Well, naw, not exactly…I, er…damn.”

“Out with it,” Sparrow giggled.

“When I was first runnin’ with Dutch and Hosea, still real young and stupider even than I am now, I had this idea in my mind that I was gonna make my name and become the outlaw who travelled with a trained wolf.”

“Oh Lord,” Sparrow muttered, taking a drink of her champagne to stifle another guffaw.

“So, I, uh, I wandered out into the forest one night and I found a young wolf, still young enough that its momma must have been around somewhere, but I didn’t pay that no mind. Thought I’d be slick and take him back to camp, so I picked him up by the scruff. Well, he let out a squeal the likes of which you ain’t never heard in yer life, and next thing I know, there comes momma. Well, I, bein’ the intelligent and terribly clever person I am, didn’t let go of that lil’ baby wolf. Instead, I high-tailed it with the little bastard a’ squealin’ and a’ cryin’ under my arm, me lookin’ over my shoulder like the devil was after me, and that might as well have been the case. Momma wolf didn’t take too kindly to me kidnappin’ her progeny. She nearly took a chunk outta my backside, but as I was runnin’ and not lookin’ where I was goin’, I tripped over a tree root and hit my chin on a rock so hard I thought I’d split my jaw clean in half. Well, I turned loose of the wolf cub and he went runnin’ on back to momma.”

“And she didn’t maul you?” Sparrow asked in shock.

“Only because Hosea showed up about that time and fired his shotgun into the air. He never did know the exact story of how I got into that scrape, but he did stitch my chin closed. Left a hell of a scar, though most folk ain’t bold enough to ask how I got it,” Arthur observed, rubbing at the two slick pink lines and eyeing Sparrow with amusement and affection.

“I ain’t ‘most folk,’” Sparrow pointed out. Arthur smirked.

“Don’t I know it, darlin’.” Their waiter approached, setting down the requested whiskey. Arthur and Sparrow spent a fine evening talking and laughing and drinking, spending more time indoors than they had in months. “Come on,” Arthur suggested after they finished their desserts, a blush high in his cheeks and his eyes twinkling from drink and happiness, “let’s go up to our room.”

Unnoticed across the bar, face veiled, someone was watching them.

\------------------

“You look beautiful,” Arthur told Sparrow, intensity in his voice as he placed his hands on her waist, his fingers rumpling the fancy material of her dress. Sparrow met his eyes, swallowed, knowing full-well that she was pale and thin, her heart condition keeping her always looking just a bit pallid, delicate in the light of the sun. She knew that her fingers were skeletally thin, knuckles protruding from thin flesh, their tips a blueish purple, making her touch always cold. She had seen goosebumps rise on Arthur’s skin when she touched him and it grieved her that in his time of illness, she couldn’t even care for him properly without adding discomfort. She remembered when she was younger, before her diagnosis, when she was lithe and healthy, color high in her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes. Before she was dying. Yes, before she was dying, she had been beautiful, she thought.

“I used to be,” she answered him finally, swallowing. Arthur’s eyebrows drew together in a tight, confused expression.

“Whatchu talkin’ about?” he asked, his voice sounding almost hurt, as though he was offended at the implication that she disagreed with his assessment of her. “Yer beautiful now,” he insisted, and she looked away from him. Making an irritated noise, Arthur snatched her by the shoulders and whirled her around so that her back was to his chest and he duckwalked her to the big mirror in the corner of their rented room. Their eyes met in the mirror and Arthur stroked her shoulders. “You _are_ beautiful. You have been beautiful, and you will be, until your dyin’ day, beautiful. Your eyes are the color of the forest on a cloudy day,” he told her, kissing the back of her neck. “Your lips are like them little pink flowers that grow ‘long the side of the road in Lamoyne, all delicate and bright midst the grass. Your hands, they’re gentle, and talented.” He took one of her hands, kissing the back of it. “Your fingers are graceful and slim. This one in particular is my favorite,” he told her, kissing her ring finger which now bore a simple silver band that served as her engagement ring. “And don’t even get me started on your body, darlin’,” he whispered in her ear, unlacing the bindings of her dress and corset, letting them slide to the floor.

Sparrow surveyed herself in the mirror, trying to see herself the way Arthur did, whole, and not cold or broken.

“My eyes are bloodshot,” she argued, “my lips are chapped and thin. My hands are always cold…” Sparrow’s voice broke and Arthur turned her back to face him, swiping the tear that slipped from her eye away.

“No. No, darlin’. I ain’t the only one lookin’ better. Look at yerself, yer a vision,” he insisted, turning her back to face him. “Yer hands? Well, they feel cool on my skin when I’m too hot. I like feelin’ them touchin’ me. Your eyes ain’t been bloodshot in weeks, and them lips of yours,” Arthur murmured, his face looming close to hers as he bent his neck so they were nose to nose, “they fit just perfect between mine,” he told her, pressing a tender kiss there to prove it. Arthur boxed her in with his arms, pushing her backwards until the backs of her knees hit the mattress and she sat with a gasp, him following her down onto the bed, sliding her body up so that her head rested on the pillows. “You spend so much time lookin’ after me, worryin’ about me, when it should be me worryin’ about you. I’m sorry thangs has been so hectic. And I’m sorry I lost track of what’s important.”

“Arthur, you haven’t–”

“Hush, now, it’s my turn to fuss over you,” he stopped her with a finger on her lips. He stripped Sparrow’s lacy bloomers off and shoved away the brassiere that she had worn beneath her corset. She laid beneath him, naked as the day she was born. “Your hair is the softest thing I’ve ever touched,” he told her, carding his fingers through it, knocking away the pins and clips that had held it into a coif. “Your neck is…mmm, I don’t have the words,” Arthur admitted in a low growl, kissing and sucking at the delicate flesh above the point where he could feel her pulse. “Your breasts are…” His words were muffled as he buried his face in them, kissing, massaging with calloused hands, “and this…” he paused between her legs, gently rubbing a finger along her slit, making her gasp. “This might as well be home,” he told her.

Arthur stood abruptly, surveying Sparrow where she lay and shaking his head almost in disbelief at his good fortune.

“But all of that, darlin’, don’t make no difference to me,” he told her, stripping his own clothing away as quickly as he could and then joining her back on the bed, pulling her toward him. “Because what really matters is right here,” he told her, his palm resting over her heart, which was beating steadily under his touch.

“Oh Arthur,” Sparrow whispered, and the way she said them made those the most beautiful words he had ever heard uttered. No longer a phrase of scolding or disappointment from others, no, this was a phrase of complete and absolute endearment, words she spoke as though they were most holy, and he was her god, which was just fine by him because whether there was a God in heaven or not, the only thing he ever wanted to worship was right here with him, on this bed.

Arthur remembered an old Bible story Hosea had read him as a kid, about Adam and Eve in their garden. Arthur would do far more than eat a forbidden fruit if it meant he could stay with this woman, he realized, feeling an aching hardness and deep longing in his loins as he ground his body against hers. Sparrow was laid before him as though she were part of him and Arthur cleaved to her, kissing her fiercely, as though he thought she might disappear if he didn’t make sure of her. He slid himself inside of her slickness without preamble and she arched her back, giving a low cry and wrapping her legs around his waist, her blunt fingernails scratching down his back. Arthur thought he didn’t understand many things about the world, but in that moment, he understood just fine how a man would be willing to damn himself for a woman.

“I love you more than life itself,” Arthur whispered into her ear, arms tugging her as close as possible, sitting her up so that she rode in his lap, her hips drawing lazy circles as he raised and lifted her, and it wasn’t enough, it simply wasn’t enough to just touch her and to be inside of her, he _needed_ her _forever_ in the way he needed air or water and his breath hitched in his throat and this time it wasn’t because of his illness it was because he was astounded that he could feel anything this deeply.

“And I love you with all that I am,” Sparrow answered him, kissing his soft lips beneath his mustache. “I love you,” she kissed his chin, “I love you,” she kissed his cheek, “I love you,” she kissed his lips, using a hand to tip his face up so their eyes met. “I love you, Mr. Morgan,” she smiled.

“I love you, future Mrs. Morgan,” he rumbled, still astonished that this woman, this gorgeous, funny, intelligent woman was going to be his wife, he thought with a thrill, his spouse, the person he would willingly die next to…and…oh Christ, she was just so beautiful, so warm against him. Arthur swallowed hard and kissed her again, his tongue exploring her mouth. Sparrow allowed it entrance, their teeth clicking together with their urgency, her own tongue teasing and prodding against his until he finally had to pull back to gasp in a deep breath.

Arthur craned his head to press kisses all along her collarbone, took her arm and kissed down the inside of it as his hips rolled up and down, pumping into Sparrow in a rhythm of slow, deep strokes that elicited quiet moans from her. He felt her walls tightening around him and his heart skipped a beat at the beauty of a woman in the throes of climax, a climax brought upon her by a man she had grown to love. Him. She loved _him,_ of all people. Tears stung at his eyes, surprising him, as he felt the depths of his adoration for her, thanked God and fate and anything else he could think of that he had happened to camp next to a pyrrhuloxia so long ago.

He actually had a heart, Arthur thought with a shock, it just took him this long to realize it because now it was finally full, and happy, and in this moment, nothing else mattered, not his past as a rotten criminal, and not his future as a dying outlaw. He wanted to write it down, to capture this feeling, but he didn’t think he would have the words. Right now, there was only one word in his mind, one name, one being: “Sparrow,” he murmured, cupping his hand behind her head, eyebrows raising in surprise as he felt his chest go warm just looking into her eyes.

“I’m right here,” she assured him, wrapping her arms behind his neck and leaning forward so their foreheads rested together.

“I– oh!” Arthur gave a stuttered cry, his climax surprising him, so caught up in his emotion as he was and he slid his arms beneath Sparrow’s, latching his hands over her shoulders and driving himself as deeply into her as he could, nearly crying with the pleasure and the righteous agony of coming undone in her arms.

“Are you okay?” Sparrow chuckled a few minutes later, still sitting in his lap, still held where she could not escape, Arthur’s head laid heavily on her shoulder. “You kinda…squeaked there at the end of that.”

“I am…just fine,” he managed to get out. “And…sorry,” he chuckled, knowing he had orgasmed with a strangled sound that probably reminded Sparrow of a muskrat being stepped on. “Kinda got caught up in my thoughts.”

“Tell them to me,” she asked him, pulling a cloth from the bedside drawer and wiping them off. And he did, telling her how much he loved her deep into the night, making love to her again before they finally drifted off to sleep in one another’s arms, utterly spent.

\------------

“I still don’t think Dutch is going to take my plan as well as you think, Arthur. You told me yourself half the gang hated the cold. Canada gets _cold_.”

“Eh, it ain’t so bad once you’re east of the Rockies. Seems to me that’d be the best land for agriculture, anyways,” he replied, scanning the tree line as they rode.

“Well, yeah, and that’s where the land will be, but still. From what I can tell, I think our Mr. Escuella would rather be killed back in Mexico than ever see snow again,” Sparrow laughed, remembering the young man griping about the cool wind that frequently chilled the area around their camp as he played a song on his guitar about warm plains and open prairies.

“He’ll be fine,” Arthur chuckled as he rode next to Sparrow. He frowned after a moment, held up a hand.

“What?” she asked.

“Shh,” he urged her, turning his horse slightly to the side and looking behind them. “We’re being followed.” Pulling his rifle, he aimed, jaw clenched. Sparrow did the same, spotting the figure, who froze. “Who goes there?” Arthur demanded. “Why you skulkin’ in the bushes like that? Huh? Come on out, or we’ll fill you so full a’ lead you can be your own pencil,” he called, lip curled.

“Oi, and isn’t that a nice way to greet a lady?” called a feminine voice in a thick Irish brogue. Clearly surprised, Arthur lowered his weapon, but Sparrow did not.

“You know this woman?” she asked, cautious.

“Molly! Where the hell you been?! It’s been months!” Satisfied now that, yes, Arthur knew this woman, and that it was Molly O’Shea, who Sparrow had heard much about but had not met, she lowered her weapon, but kept it in her hand.

“Ar’tur, I didn’t know what to do,” Molly said, walking up. “I tried finding the camp, but you were all gone,” she said in a defeated voice. “It’s probably fer the best,” she said. “I got…well, I got quite drunk and was plannin’ on tellin’ Dutch I’d sold you all out, just to spite him.”

“Jesus, Molly, you woulda got yerself shot,” Arthur remarked, wide-eyed.

“Aye, but maybe tha’d be better than what I’ve been up to instead,” the red-headed woman lamented. Sparrow took in Molly’s fine clothes, which were much stained and rumpled. Her coifed hair was dull and unwashed. “I hadta…”

“You had to do what all the other women in camp have had to do at some time or ‘nother,” Arthur cut her off impatiently. “You used to talk all high and mighty, stayin’ in Dutch’s tent and makin’ Karen and Tilly and the others do all the…er,” he glanced at Sparrow, “hard work.” Sparrow snorted, realizing just exactly what Arthur was implying and wondering, for a brief moment, if he had ever used the camp girls’ services before deciding very firmly that she _did not_ want to know. “Anyway, we all know you ain’t the rat. Micah was. He’s dead.” Molly’s eyes bugged out a bit and her mouth dropped open.

“Is Dutch…?”

“He’s alright. Are _you_ alright, Miss O’Shea?” Arthur asked her, genuinely concerned. Molly’s cheeks burned red beneath the layer of soft brown freckles that spattered her features.

“I just want to go home, Ar’tur,” she told him, expression desperate. “Wherever that may be.” She glanced at Sparrow and frowned a bit. “Who’s this, then?”

“You been away a while, Molly,” Arthur said lowly. He didn’t have any particularly hard feelings toward the woman, but her haughty behavior had always stuck in his craw. “This here’s Sparrow Callaghan. My fiancée.”

“Oh,” Molly said, looking more surprised than when Arthur told her Micah was dead.

“So why are you followin’ us, Molly? Looks a bit suspicious, you hafta admit,” Arthur asked her, reining his horse when it started pawing impatiently at the ground.

“I know,” she said forlornly. “I was hoping to follow you back to camp. Ask Dutch to take me back.”

“I think that ship may have sailed,” Sparrow said in a dry tone. Arthur looked at her, shook his head urgently, but she barreled on, knowing she wouldn’t want to have this sugar-coated if she were in Molly’s position. “Molly, I’ve heard a bit about you, and I think it’s only fair you know…I’ve seen Dutch spending a lot of time with Mary Beth.” Molly’s face went first very white, then very, very red.

“Dammit, woman,” Arthur hissed, but Sparrow gave him a hard look that made him close his mouth without saying anything else.

“That…that…he’s, oh, he’s a…” and the next paragraph or so of words that streamed from Molly’s mouth were so thick in dialect that Sparrow couldn’t possibly hope to understand them. Molly put a trembling hand to her forehead, fighting back tears. “I don’t want to go back to him, not really. Not even if he wasn’t fucking some other girl,” she told them bitterly. She met Arthur’s eyes. “But I don’t have a choice, Ar’tur.”

“There’s always a choice to go back or to not, Molly,” Sparrow said gently, feeling for the woman.

“And just what would you know of it, you weaselly little harlot? For all I know you’re lyin’ about it anyway.” Sparrow rolled her eyes as Arthur held out a hand to keep her calm. Molly was behaving exactly as Arthur had described, all fiery temper and wild emotions. Then again, thinking about Dutch’s behavior, Sparrow supposed she could hardly blame her. She put herself in Molly’s place, but with Arthur in Dutch’s stead and found her chest burning in fury at the thought of him wooing another woman, glaring at Arthur, who startled.

“What the hell did I do?” he asked in a pathetic tone, clearly uneasy.

“Nothing,” Sparrow told him, forcing herself to calm.

“Look, Ar’tur,” Molly said in a defeated tone, “If Dutch won’t take me back, then I have to go home to Ireland. I just need fare for a ship ride. I could go home, try to get my family to take me back…” Her face crumpled as she fought tears.

“That ain’t no better than here,” Arthur pointed out, looking conflicted.

“And what other choice do I have, then? If Dutch is really done with me, and I…I don’t even know what I’d do here, wit’out the gang,” Molly wailed.

“I ain’t gonna lie to you and tell ya Dutch loves ya, Molly. Hell, he goes through people like newspaper, but…well. He’s always kind to the ones he used to love. First it was Hosea, then Ms. Grimshaw… Hell, it ain’t just his romantic interests. Even I didn’t last as the camp’s golden boy, Molly,” he grumbled. “I got replaced with John and God knows who he’ll be replaced by as he gets older. Jack, mebbe?” Arthur gave a long sigh, staring off into the distance and wondering again if Dutch had ever been worth the time of day the gang gave him.

“What’s your point, Ar’tur?” Molly asked, sniffling.

“My point, Miss O’Shea,” he said gently, holding a hand out to her, “is that Dutch has never kicked anyone out of his camp so long as they’re still loyal to him. You work hard, work alongside Ms. Grimshaw, and we’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” Molly studied him for a long moment.

“You’re a good man, Mr. Morgan,” she remarked, wringing her hands.

“Don’t let that get out,” he said dryly, a kind smirk on his face. Molly’s eyes flicked to Sparrow, who was silent.

“I’m sorry. Fer callin’ you a harlot,” she said, though her expression was still cold.

“And I’m sorry for being the bearer of bad news,” Sparrow told her. Molly glanced to the hand Arthur was offering, then back to Sparrow.

“I think I’ve had quite enough of touching men for the moment,” Molly told them, raising her chin into the air and letting her features settle into a prideful expression. “Sparrow, was it?”

Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Sparrow offered her hand.

“Come on, ain’t got all day,” she said. Molly allowed herself to be pulled up behind Sparrow, sitting side-saddle.

“T’anks,” Molly said softly, holding Sparrow’s waist. Sparrow nodded once.

“Don’t make me regret Arthur’s softheartedness, Miss O’Shea,” she advised. “I so much as think I hear a Pinkerton approaching our camp, I’ll put a bullet right through that pretty face of yours.” Molly smirked, lifting her nose again.

“Alright then, _eun beag_,” Molly agreed crisply. Satisfied with her answer, Sparrow spurred her horse to action, riding alongside Arthur down the shaded forest trail.


	30. I'll Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Sparrow plan their wedding. Arthur has a discussion with Dutch. John and Abigail admit something to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Vaginal sex
> 
> There is a brief John/Abigail scene. If that is not your cup of tea, skip everything after the ***

The fight between Dutch and Molly was long, loud, and convoluted. They walked away from one another at least three different times and ignored the other’s presence for over an hour before the fight resumed again, each time with greater animosity and volume. Dutch was slapped twice, and Molly at least once, though another blow was heard within his tent later that couldn’t be attributed accurately to either party with any real confidence.

Most of the gang found things to do outside the camp, disappearing into the undergrowth around the area with haste. Arthur, for his part, stood outside Dutch’s tent with his arms crossed over his chest, prepared to intervene should either party pull a knife or a gun on the other. Relations degraded, and then, apparently, improved and Arthur turned quite red as the sound of passionate lovemaking sounded from within the tent. The arguing then broke out again and Molly, her hair attractively mussed and color high in her cheeks stormed out of the tent declaring,

“You’re a pig, Dutch van der Linde!” Arthur watched her go, opting to keep his head attached to his shoulders, so he said nothing to her when her shoulder clipped his own roughly and she sneered at him, telling him, “and you’re his lapdog, Ar’tur!” Irritated, Arthur sighed and rapped his knuckle smartly on one of the tent stakes.

“Dutch. Need ta speak wi’chu.”

“Not now, Arthur,” Dutch said in a weary voice, but Arthur was all out of both fear and respect for this man.

“Yes, _now_, Dutch,” he said, stepping in. Dutch was doing up his pant’s buttons and he gave Arthur a furious look, but didn’t bother trying to kick him out.

“What is it, Arthur?”

“Several things, Dutch, first and foremost is I’m gettin’ married.” Dutch stared at him dumbly for a moment as though he hadn’t quite heard what he had said.

“…married. You?” Arthur gave a bitter chuckle.

“Don’t sound so skeptical, Dutch.” Dutch leaned back, looking down his nose at Arthur. “Sparrow went down into Blackwater.”

“She went into Blackwater?!” Dutch exploded, and Arthur held out a placating hand.

“Don’t nobody know her there, Dutch, you know that. She went into Blackwater and looked into some land up in Canada. She got it all squared away for us, Dutch.” Arthur laughed a real laugh this time, a sound that was full of hope and relief. “She just needs a man’s name on the paperwork, she’s gotta be married, and of all the men she coulda had, she chose me.”

“Canada.”

“Canada,” Arthur confirmed. Dutch stared at him with calculating eyes.

“You bring Molly back here, you announce you’re getting married and we’re moving to Canada. What’s next, Arthur, you shoot me in the head to put me out of my misery?” he demanded in that thick, hoarse voice of his, standing so abruptly he knocked his stool over. Arthur, taken aback, stumbled in place, coughed.

“I’m just tryin’ to see us to safety, Dutch. To see this thing done.”

“Yes, and how very noble of you,” Dutch hissed, narrowing his eyes. “Though I cannot fathom why you would suddenly become so generous, so willing to give of yourself.” Arthur exploded at that, furious.

“Because I’m dyin’, Dutch! You know that!”

“Are you, Arthur? You haven't looked sick in weeks. You start gettin' your way and suddenly you aren't breaking down into coughing fits every other moment." Dutch crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. "It seems to me you are just deploying more cheap theatrics for us, playing some kind of game to achieve…what?” Arthur’s lip curled and he took a step back, toward the entrance of the tent.

“John was right. You have lost your mind, Dutch. Always lookin’ for something better, somethin’ greater that don’t exist. You are not a king, Dutch. You’re just a man.” Dutch deflated slightly at that.

“Is that what you all think of me now? That I am some mad monarch lording over a shitty kingdom, Arthur?”

“Isn’t that what you want, Dutch? To be king among men? You can’t even see it, that we finally have freedom, we finally have someplace to be and you don’t want it ‘cause it ain’t on your own terms."

“I never said I didn't want it, son,” Dutch replied, cowed. “But Canada, it's...and on the terms of a rich woman? That is not what we are, Arthur.” Arthur had to resist the urge to strain a muscle rolling his eyes at that. The hypocrisy was nauseating.

“She ain't rich no more, Dutch. And she ain't the likes of Cornwall and all the others, in either character or wealth. She's got enough to get us a ranch started, true, and she does get the say of how the money gets spent, but she's not your enemy, Dutch. You know that.” Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Plotting, Arthur couldn't help but think. “We're gonna start plannin' the wedding this afternoon, Dutch. We're gonna do the thing proper tomorrow and submit the paperwork quick as we can. We'll have to declare the marriage in Canada given my wanted status in the States, but we'll make it work.” With that, Arthur turned and exited Dutch's tent. Just as he was closing the flap behind him, Dutch said,

“I didn't buy you that hat for a reason, Arthur.” Arthur paused and turned back to him, brow wrinkled. “Last time you...accosted me,” Dutch forced out, “you brought up that damn hat of yours. The one Hosea bought you.” Dutch met his eyes, his own cold and calculating as usual. “I didn't want to buy it for you because it was the same hat your father had. I knew that was why you wanted it. I knew that was the appeal and that was not what I wanted for you, Arthur. I wanted you to be your own man.”

“And now?” Arthur asked testily. Dutch tipped his head up, his chin rising in a kind of challenge.

“You are certainly that, son. You are certainly that.”

\------------

Despite the fact that Dutch still clearly held some issue with Sparrow and all of her and Arthur's planning, he pulled her aside, gentlemanly, offered to walk her up with aisle. Much as she wanted to refuse, both because she didn't view herself as property, and because Dutch was hardly the person she wanted giving her away, she agreed, wanting to mend the rift between him and Arthur.

The preparations were made quickly. Sparrow rode into Valentine with Abigail, who helped her pick out a simple dress with a subtle flower pattern, nothing too fancy, but nicer than most of the clothing the gang typically wore. Abigail argued with her mightily, but Sparrow insisted on buying her and all the other women new dresses as well. They would need new clothing in Canada, might as well start with a comfortable, nice-fitting dress. They returned to camp with a wagon piled with clothing and the ingredients for a small feast. Sparrow made arrangements with the general store to obtain payment from the bank that held her money in Saint Denis, keeping a close eye on her funds in her journal, careful not to spend too much. She was wealthy in most senses of the word, but she had a lot of people to care for. Best not blow all her money on one day. It was the first time in years she had to be careful with money. She had spent so long knowing she was going to die and spending money she figured she couldn't take with her. It felt good having to tabulate costs and keep track of things. It felt good, rewriting her own ending, helping people she cared for.

Pearson, with much help from Tilly and even a begrudging Sadie, cooked up a fine cake, as well as a meal of venison that Charles provided them. John had foraged the area and returned with carrots, mushrooms, potatoes and spices to season the meal, looking sheepish when Sparrow kissed him on the cheek, and going scarlet when Abigail tugged him down by the collar to press a quick kiss on his lips, adding a snarky little,

“Looks like you're finally startin' to put some effort into things that matter, John Marston,” but there was no real venom in her tone. His hand caught hers as she sauntered away to continue helping Sparrow set things up, and he tugged her back.

“Come back here, woman,” he murmured, and Abigail struggled, but let him successfully pull her up to face him again. He studied her expression for a moment and the edge of his lips tugged upwards slightly.

“What is it?” she asked him expectantly.

“Just wanted to see if you would come back to me if I asked you to,” he said softly, having lost the nerve to do what he had planned – kiss her hard and deliberately in front of everyone. He noticed Karen's eyes on him, as well as Arthur's and a few others and he swallowed.

“I got things to do,” Abigail scolded him, but she softened when she saw the slight disappointment on his face. “Tell you what, why don't you take Jack out to pick some wildflowers? Sparrow'll need a bouquet.”

“I can do that,” John assured her, but he sounded nervous, his voice cracking a bit. Abigail wrangled Jack and passed him off to John, who awkwardly put his hand atop the boy's head, letting him chatter away about inane things before helping him up onto his horse and riding out of camp in search of flowers.

Arthur stared wistfully after them, his fingers shredding a piece of grass he had picked up, pulling it into little pieces that he discarded with absent flicks of his wrist.

“You alright, Arthur?” asked Charles, walking up. Arthur's gaze flickered to his friend and he smiled slightly.

“For the first time in a while, I am, Charles. How're _you?”_ An odd expression crossed Charles' features, but he nodded and said,

“I'm fine, Arthur, why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Arthur assured him, “just making sure.” Charles huffed a small laugh and pulled out an arrow, adjusting the turkey feathers he had attached to it.

“I was looking for something to do, but it appears Sparrow has it handled,” Charles commented, watching her bustle about, giving orders and directions. She was currently forcing a stiff brush through Swanson's hair and lecturing him about the consequences of prolonged usage of opioids. He was listening intently, but from the dull glint in his eye, Arthur suspected that the train was already out of the station on that one. So long as he could do his part as a minister, Arthur supposed.

“Reckon you could just...hang here with me,” Arthur laughed, chagrined. He picked up a tin cup that had been sitting at his feet and took a sip with a deep grimace. “Sparrow's got me drinkin' this...whatever this is. Tastes awful, but she says it'll help with the coughin'. Don't want to be hackin' up a lung in the middle of my wedding,” he commented in a wry tone.

“You look good, Arthur,” Charles told him sincerely. “You look better than you have in months.”

“Havin' a good woman will tend to do that to ya,” Arthur commented, watching his wife-to-be with affection as she directed Karen in the making of a small table placement for the dinner that would follow the ceremony.

“Having a good friend will too,” Charles told him, clapping a wide hand on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur looked suddenly very upset with himself, running a hand behind his neck.

“Look, Charles...I shoulda asked you first but...”

“But you made Marston your best man,” Charles said with a knowing look and a small smirk. “It's just a title, Arthur. You've known him longer, he might as well be your brother. I made you something. Give me a minute.” Charles sauntered to his tent and returned with a package, handing it to Arthur. Arthur peeled away the brown paper that concealed the gift and held it, his face going very white. He swallowed hard and met Charles' eye.

“You made this? For me?”

“Consider it a wedding gift. And a moving gift. Canada gets cold. You'll need it.” In Arthur's hands was a beautifully crafted coat. The outer layer of it was soft, tanned bison leather, tinted a soft olive green. It was lined with sheepskin, the thick fur a warm layer within it, rustling as the garment moved. Hand-carved wooden buttons each portrayed the head of a buck in surprising detail. There were pockets at the breasts and waist of the jacket, and a belt that could loop around the waist and had slots for carrying bullets. There was also a loop for an herb satchel. The collar was high and doubly lined with sheepskin with a layer of canvas between it and the leather. It extended upwards into a beeswax coated hood that would keep rain off Arthur's head. The jacket was long, reaching nearly to his ankles when he had pulled it on, awed at the craftsmanship and attention to detail.

Taken completely off guard at the kindness of the gift, Arthur met Charles' eye, his mouth dropping open slightly and he thrust out an arm and yanked Charles forward, pulling him into a hard, brief hug before shoving him back so quickly that if one had blinked they would have missed the entire exchange.

“Thank you,” Arthur told him sincerely. The day was filled with similar such encounters, gang members greeting Arthur with friendly faces, offering him gifts they had made or bought or perhaps stolen for him. Javier, somewhat distant since he disliked Arthur's disagreements with Dutch, still offered Arthur an elaborate fishing lure that he had wrapped in a minnow net, perfect for capturing the small fish for bait.

“How do you think the fishing is in Canada?” Javier had asked hopefully. Arthur had clapped him on the shoulder with a grin and responded,

“You and I are gonna find out, just as soon as we get there, Javier.”

Pearson, aside from making the wedding cake and preparing the meal, had made Arthur and Sparrow an extension for Arthur's tent that expanded the space so that when it was fully set up, two cots could be trussed side-by-side to give them a more comfortable place to sleep whenever they didn't use the bed in the cabin.

Bill didn't give Arthur a wedding gift, but he begrudgingly shared a bottle of whiskey with him, chatting awkwardly in his gruff way. Uncle joined in with this, ribbing them both raucously, like a crow teasing a couple of irritated hawks.

Molly procured a very fine tortoiseshell comb from somewhere and gave it to Sparrow, a sort of combined wedding gift and peace offering in one.

Miss Grimshaw offered Sparrow a little palette of lip stain and some hair product, helping Sparrow to style her hair for the ceremony. To Arthur, she offered some sort of advice, whispered softly in his ear. She was smirking when she walked away and Arthur was scarlet all about the ears and cheeks, the red coloring extending down his neck. Even Dutch chuckled at that little interaction, coming out of his tent and warming to the occasion. After half a bottle of port, he was his usual grandstanding, melodramatic self, offering Arthur much unused wisdom regarding staying happy in a relationship. Molly rolled her eyes openly at this, but said nothing.

Mary Beth shyly approached Arthur, stuttering a bit as she began.

“I don't have much to offer you, Arthur, but...well, you know I've been workin' on that book?”

“Of course,” he told her, smiling kindly. “Sparrow told me she'd put in a good word getting it published.”

“Well, I wanted to give you something, but I wasn't sure what. But then it struck me and...well, I named the main character after you, Arthur. It's...it's silly,” she concluded, looking embarrassed and starting to walk off. Arthur stopped her and pulled her into a short hug.

“Thank you, darlin'. But I ain't no hero.” Mary Beth looked up at him with crystal blue eyes and smiled sweetly.

“The heroes never think they are, Arthur. Congratulations on your wedding day. You deserve to be happy.” With that, she gave him a small smile, patted his arm and darted away to continue helping with setup and decoration.

There were hoof beats at the edge of camp and Bill, who had been standing guard with Javier hollered,

“Who the hell goes there?”

“Look at what we found!” called John's hoarse voice. Aside from the massive basket of flowers he and Jack had returned with, behind him followed Josiah Trelawny on his own horse.

“Gentlemen! Ladies!” he greeted. “I finally managed to receive my mail and to my immense surprise found that you had all relocated to the middle of nowhere. And what's this, then, is someone getting married?” the dapper gentleman asked.

“Yes, actually,” John cut in, “why'd you think we have all these flowers, Josiah?”

“Oh, who knows why anyone does anything,” he answered flippantly. He climbed down off his horse, tethered it and bowed deeply to Sparrow, who had walked up. “Miss Callaghan, what a pleasure to see you again!”

“Hello, Mr. Trelawny,” she greeted him, but she looked distracted.

“I hear you two lovebirds are finally making things official. I suppose it is true, birds of a feather do flock together,” he declared and he twitched his sleeve.

“Oh Lord, here we go,” Arthur muttered, knowing what would happen next. Sure enough, Josiah gave a flourish and a small flock of brown birds fluttered from his sleeves. He looked expectantly at Sparrow, who clenched her jaw, not at all impressed.

“Did you _catch_ those poor birds and jam them in your sleeve?”

“No, no, of course not, I _bought _them and then I jammed them in my sleeve,” Josiah said sourly, unused to his tricks being met with such lack of applause.

“Please do not torment wildlife for the sake of a poor parlour trick, Mr. Trelawney,” Sparrow said tersely. “I'd prefer if we kept the animal cruelty performed in my presence to a minimum.” There were a few uncomfortable looks shared, but Uncle gave a massive guffaw and Charles looked amused.

“There, there, Trelawney,” Karen comforted him, “there's always the circus if she kicks you out of camp.”

“Alright then,” Trelawney said, smoothing his hair back and composing himself. “Would these, perhaps, make up for it?” With that, he somehow miraculously produced a small bouquet of flowers, which Sparrow accepted with an amused look. She held out her right hand and he took it, shaking it briefly.

“Let's call a truce, shall we?” she suggested and he smiled beneath his neatly trimmed mustache.

“Of course. Today, from what I understand, is not the day for bickering.”

“Indeed it is not, my friend, though I do believe you and I should discuss where exactly you have been,” Dutch told him, walking up. There was a moment of tense silence and then Trelawney nodded.

“Of course, Dutch, of course. In the meantime, continue the merriment! No need to stop on my behalf,” but this last bit was unnecessary as Sparrow and the others had already returned to the preparations.

A few hours later, Dutch walked Sparrow up a roughly-made aisle surrounded on two sides by logs and hay bales where the other gang members sat. Jack had been encouraged to sprinkle petals from the flowers he had helped gather along the path. He squirmed next to Abigail, who was standing in as Sparrow's matron-of-honor, his clothes done up nicely for the occasion. John too squirmed, tugging at the fancy knot Sparrow had tied in his bandanna. He stood next to Arthur, who looked awestruck as Sparrow walked toward him. He didn't look nervous, though he shifted his weight awkwardly and stifled a cough into his fist.

Swanson was as composed as he would ever be, and he gave a brief sermon on the topic of love that no one really paid much attention to.

In the end, Arthur and Sparrow kissed one another tenderly after they had traded vows and simple silver rings and the party to celebrate their union began. There was merriment in excess with music being played by Javier, Uncle and even Sadie, all joining together with their instruments to provide music for the others to dance to. Even Dutch and Molly danced together, though anyone paying attention noticed that Molly slept with the rest of the girls instead of Dutch's tent when she turned in for the night.

Spirits were lifted by the occasion, with everyone gathered feeling the kind of hope once more that they had felt after leaving Coulter so long ago. It seemed, at last, that things were going their way again, and it was mostly due to Sparrow's generosity. Dutch offered his hand to Sparrow to dance with, relaxing once she accepted.

“You look beautiful, Mrs. Morgan.” Her eyes glittered with mischief.

“I believe you mean 'Mrs. Callaghan.' We decided to take my last name, just to make things safer on paper.” Dutch chuckled.

“Well, I suppose it only makes sense for Arthur to use it since he already has been.”

“What?” Sparrow asked, brow wrinkled.

“You didn't know?” Dutch laughed. “Arthur's been using your last name as a cover for months. Seems like maybe he wanted all this for even longer than I realized.” Dutch's tone had gone warm with affection, probably from the alcohol that he had imbibed, but Sparrow could appreciate that at least he wasn't being a jackass at the moment.

“May I cut in,” Arthur asked, without asking. Dutch passed Sparrow's hand to Arthur's.

“It would appear your husband is not inclined to share,” Dutch teased, and he left them in pursuit of another dancer instead.

The party lasted long into the night, the merriment only ceasing as exhaustion overtook the gang members.

\--------------------***

He only had eyes for her. Pulling her into his tent, he stripped the dress from her, gentle hands unlacing the simple undergarments beneath it. Looking to her for permission, he tipped his head downward and captured her lips with his own, his stubble scratching lightly against her skin. Pushing her down onto his padded bed, he framed her hips with his legs, pressing an urgent hardness into her thigh, mouth opening in a gasp of desire. It had been so long, and he had been so lonely. He had wanted her for months, needed her for months. His chest ached with it, his heart pounding madly as her hands roamed over his body, squeezing one of his ass cheeks with a hand made strong by chores and hard work. Her fingers made quick work of his belt and his pants, shoving them roughly down to his calves before he kicked them off, desperate to be near her, to be inside of her.

Abigail caressed his cheek with her hand, her thumb lightly running over the stuttered scar that sliced through his upper lip.

“What are we doin' here, John?” she asked him, breathless.

“I dunno,” he admitted, his usual clueless self. A look of irritation crossed her features, but she amended it to one of vague amusement when he tipped his hips against her, his cock sliding readily up her leg with an urgency that made her slide her legs apart to allow him entrance. John tilted his hips, elated with the possibility of plunging himself inside of her, but there was a glint to her eye that scared him – rightfully. In an instant, Abigail had a vice-like grip on John's balls and he let out a little frightened moan, his eyes going wide in the dimness of the tent.

“I ain't lookin' for a roll in the hay with you, John Marston,” she warned him in a firm tone that brooked no nonsense. “I'm lookin' for a father to my child. _Your _child. Someone who can be responsible. Someone who ain't gonna run off at the first sign of trouble.”

“I'm here, ain't I?” he asked her defensively, very carefully rolling his hips to test the tenacity of her grip. It tightened and he let out a grunt. “Abigail, please.” His eyes softened, his brows drawing together in earnest sincerity. “I ain't just here for a roll in the hay,” he assured her, forcing himself to calm despite the tugging grip she had on his two proudest possessions. He slid his hand along her jaw and leaned down to kiss her. “I'm here because...because I love ya,” he blurted, reddening. “And because I want to be a father to Jack. I wanna do right by you, and now I've got the opportunity.” Abigail's grip loosened, but did not release. Instead, she slid the grasp up to the shaft of his cock and stroked it back to urgent hardness, kissing his jaw.

“Alright then, John,” she murmured.

“Do you want me?”

“I'll have you,” she answered with a mischievous smirk, which he returned. He sat the head of his cock against her slit, writhing for a moment against the delicious wetness before he sank slowly inside of her, shuddering with need. John slid his hand behind Abigail's head, meeting her in a passionate, hungry kiss. They vied for control, her biting his lower lip roughly, pulling it and letting it pop back to his teeth only after she had worried it. He groaned deep in his throat as she sucked on his tongue, arching her hips up to grind hard against his pelvis, taking his cock deeper inside of her. Abigail pulled back from the kiss and whispered in his ear, “You're mine, John Marston.”

“Yes,” he agreed, thrusting into her with forceful pops of his hips, their flesh slapping together in the darkness. He sank his fingers into her waist, groaning at the sensation of tightness and wetness, plunging himself madly in and out of her, knowing he was going too fast but unable to resist the urge to fuck her hard, to make her as much his as he was hers. He nipped at her neck, one of his hands going to her breast and pinching a pink nipple, making her squirm beneath him. His other hand he guided down between then, rubbing the nub at the front of her slit as he pumped in and out of her, feeling her tightening down around his cock, feeling her warm essence dripping around his cock and he was nearly undone, forcing himself to think of mundane things to push away his own release, to make himself last longer for her.

“John,” she called him, taking one of his hands in hers.

“Yeah, Abigail?” he asked, voice rough with effort as he slowed his thrusts into her tightness, struggling to keep control.

“I love you too. I...I have. For a while. I love you.” He leaned down and tipped his forehead against hers, pulling her closer, his movements now a slow roll of his hips, his ass clenching and unclenching to press himself within her.

“I love you, Abigail,” he assured her again. She nibbled at his earlobe, sinking her fingers into his hair and they rolled as one upon the padded blankets that made up John's bed. Abigail perched atop him now, John on his back, his hands on her muscular hips, letting her take control. She moved above him like a conquering warrior, her face all smug charm and he melted, face going slack with adoration. Abigail rode him until she tightened again, letting out a soft whimper as she orgasmed for a second time, her nails scratching down his chest. When she regained her senses, she reached behind her and massaged his balls and it was too much. John clenched, his toes curling, his legs going taut with effort and he threw his head back, hips popping up to sink as deeply as he could in this position before he filled her with his release, crying out loudly, though Abigail quickly stifled his rough growling exclamation with the palm of her hand.

Rolling off him, she pulled John close, cuddling into his chest. John stroked her hair with gentle fingers, absently curling her brown locks through his fingers as they laid together in their post-coitus daze.

“Do you wanna stay?” he asked her softly, his heart in his throat.

“I gotta see to Jack,” she murmured. “I left him with Sadie.”

“Alright, you see to the boy. We'll talk in the morning,” he agreed, disappointed, but understanding. Pleased, Abigail kissed him.

“You really have grown up, John. Time was you would've just said 'he'll be fine with her,' and tried mountin' me again.” John chuckled sheepishly and didn't argue. “But he is fine. Sadie said she'd watch him for me until morning, so yes. I'll stay.”

"In that case..." John said, and he let his sentence trail off as he rolled atop Abigail again.


	31. A Direct Democracy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just about done! I cut a ton of plot from what I originally had planned, but I want to get this story wrapped up so I can move on to others. The next chapter should be a bit more exciting.

John let out a sustained breath of air, pushing tobacco smoke from his lungs as he surveyed the pandemonium that was packing up a camp full of grouchy people, getting everything gathered and squared away and a course set. It was stressing him out. He wanted the stressless, carefree life they had once led before they all had bounties on their heads, the life where he sat on his ass most days, whittling or snoozing until the next robbery, or until Arthur upended a bucket of cold water over his head. He missed being lazy. He missed riding into town with a pocketful of cash and burying himself in the prettiest evening lady available. That is, he missed all of that until he encountered_ that_ evening lady, he realized, eyes sliding over Abigail's lithe form as she stacked boxes of provisions in a wagon. He hadn't been ready to be a parent, and he hadn't been ready for Abigail to not only declare that he had gotten her with child, but also that she loved him. He remembered one of their worst fights before Jack had been born, nearly six years ago now. It had been bad,_ really_ bad, and remembering his own words now brought a flush to his thin cheeks and shame stabbing through his chest.

_ "Well, how do you know it's even mine?" John had demanded when Abigail grabbed his hand and touched it to her swollen belly, when she had told him that the baby was his and that she wanted to be with him, wanted to raise the child together. He was terrified, angry, desperate to escape responsibility. _

_ "Because I ain't been with no one but you for months, John Marston," she had told him, her voice trembling with unwept tears. She wouldn't let a tear fall in front of him. He didn't deserve to see her weep for him. _

_ "Seems to me you're still plenty friendly with other men, Abigail," John had blurted, jutting a hand at Arthur, who had become deeply protective of her since he'd noticed the swell in her belly and the widening of her hips. Abigail scoffed at him, a look of disgust dropping over her features._

_ "Morgan doesn't have to pay for a woman to want to bed him," she hissed, uncaring that she had just insulted herself and her profession, so long as it hurt John. And it had. John, taken aback, had curled his lip, ignoring Arthur, who had stood and was approaching them, ever the diligent protector of Abigail these days._

_ "You know what, Abigail? Figure it out yourself. I thought you were supposed to be doing something to prevent gettin' knocked up in the first place. Isn't that part of a whore's job?" The blow hit John like a freight train. A massive fist crashed into his jaw, slinging his head to the side and before he could recover, another hit him in the belly. Next he knew, he was grabbed by the belt and the collar. Two burly arms lifted him, flinging him through the air like a sentient hay bale. John landed on his face and hands with a loud “OOF.” He shook his head to clear his mind of the first blow, but another one came, and now he was pinned, his back to the ground as an onslaught of fists beat him bloody. _

_ Arthur, squatting above him, finally ran out of steam and stopped hitting him, but a big hand still held John to the ground._

_ "Don't you _ever_ speak to the mother of your child like that, Marston. You don't know what you've got. You don't know. You better straighten out and take care of her, boah, or I swear to God I'll put you in the ground," Arthur told John, his voice trembling with rough emotion. Scrambling out from beneath him, John picked himself up and brushed off his clothing, favoring one eye, which was already swelling shut. His tongue was cut and bruised and he could taste the strong essence of his own blood in his mouth. His jaw ached and his vision swam with pain as he glared at Arthur, who was panting, his eyes sharp but appearing wet at the edges._

_ "You want a family again so bad, Arthur, you take her," John had snapped before storming off. _

John swallowed, the ache of shame making him feel sick. How he could have spoken to Abigail and Arthur that way... He shook his head at himself and flicked his cigarette away, stepping up to take a large stack of boxes out of Abigail's hands.

"I've got it, baby," he told her with a little grin.

"'Baby'?" she asked, looking amused.

"Honey, then. Sugar?"

"Oh, stop it, you," Abigail insisted, but she pulled John in for a peck on the cheek once he had set the boxes down. "What's gotten into you?" She followed John's gaze to where Arthur and Sparrow were working on inventory, the two thin individuals doing all the planning and giving the orders since no one wanted to let them do the actual labor. They looked better, but there was an unspoken agreement among all the gang members not to risk pushing them back into illness.

"If you knew you was only gonna get a few years of happiness with somebody, would you still be with ‘em?" John asked her, voice oddly hollow. "Even if you knew it was gonna end…bad, would you still want to be with them?" Abigail put her hand on his arm, frowning.

"Of course. It's worth tellin' people you care, and givin' 'em love while you can. In this life, you never know what could happen. Hell, you might get yourself eaten by a pack of wolves in the middle of the wilderness," she teased John. His gaze flicked to her.

"That ain't funny."

"Looks pretty funny from where I'm standin'," she smirked. John swatted her on the ass and she giggled and spun, grabbing at John's belt and making him squawk when she squeezed him through his jeans, drawing the attention of Sparrow.

"Alright, you two, y'all can play 'find the sausage' on your own time. In the meantime, we need the rest of those boxes loaded onto that wagon. UNCLE! If I see you sleeping again when I've told you to pack something, I'm leaving you behind, and don't you 'my lumbago' me or I'll break your back so you actually have something to complain about, old man, go!"

"All that yellin' can't be good for your heart, woman" the old man hollered, but he winced when she started striding toward him, plucking a thin branch from a tree and holding it menacingly as she approached. Uncle muttered something nasty under his breath, but he began to move sacks of flour one at a time into the chuck wagon and Sparrow moved away with an approving nod.

John finished packing the boxes onto one of the wagons and stared across the clearing around the old cabin, looking for Jack. He was fiddling with something in the dirt, scrabbling away with small, deft movements that seemed to take up his entire concentration. Feeling a sudden warm streak of affection for his son, John walked over to him, ruffling his hair. Jack ignored him, focused as he was on his task.

“Whatcha doin’, son?” John asked.

“Gettin’ doodlebugs.”

“Doodlebugs?” John asked, one brow raising quizzically.

“Mmmhmm. It’s what Uncle Arthur calls ‘em. Momma calls ‘em antlions. They _eat_ ants. Watch,” he ordered, and John squatted down to comply. Jack caught an ant between two grubby fingers and gently dropped it into a small, conical divot in the ground. The ant fell to the bottom and began a struggle to climb up the sides, but only managed to dislodge dirt onto itself. Suddenly, a vicious pair of tiny pincers protruded from the sand and snatched the ant, much to John’s surprise.

“What in the hell?” he muttered under his breath, simultaneously amused and horrified. With a deft motion, Jack scooped two fingers beneath the creature and plucked it from the sand triumphantly. He sat it in his palm where it scooted backwards, fidgeting its little pincers in apparent irritation at losing its meal.

“See?” Jack asked, delighted. John smiled.

“Sure do, Jack. That was pretty clever. You baitin’ the little critter. Whatcha gonna do with it?” Jack studied the tiny creature in his palm and shrugged.

“Dunno,” he said, and his face grew suddenly mournful. “Maybe keep him? Like we did Cain?” John’s heart sank.

“Oh, buddy, I don’t think this fella will like bein’ kept too much. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you turn him loose, and when we get to the next camp, way up in Canada, we’ll find you another dog, huh?”

“Really?!” Jack asked, suddenly gleeful again. John smiled.

“Sure, son. We’ll get ya another dog. A good one. One that can hunt.”

“Okay,” Jack said, clearly pleased. “You want him?” he asked, offering the antlion with a motion of quiet enthusiasm, his eyes glittering with excitement at being paid attention to. John chuckled.

“Here,” he said, offering a much larger palm for the antlion to scuttle around in. The two of them, father and son, watched the small creature try to burrow away from John’s hand and finally John lowered his fingers to the ground, allowing the insect to escape into the soft sand. “There we go,” he said, “now he’s back where he belongs. He’s free.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed with a wide smile. “He’s a good antlion, though.”

“Sure is. Come on. Let’s go find some herbs for cookin’ dinner. Climb up,” John told him, letting his son clamber onto his shoulders and ride him pick-a-back. Jack’s little fingers clung to John’s tangled locks and John looked up at him. “You alright up there, son?”

“Yeah, daddy! I’m tall now!” Jack declared and a thick lump formed in John’s throat. How could he have ever thought of this precious being as a burden? Why had he ever been terrified of this? He put a hand on each of Jack’s legs to steady him and walked into the brush, searching for herbs and mushrooms, Jack playing with his hair all the while. A sense of warm contentment flooded John, and he found, for the first time in a very long time, that he was happy.

By the time everything was packed and the route was planned, it was late in the evening. After a bit of bickering between Dutch, Arthur, Bill, Sparrow and the others, they decided to ride out the next day, so the gang members drew straws for who would sleep jammed into the cabin on thin pads, and who would sleep out on the tiny covered porch and the surrounding grass. All the tents had already been packed.

Arthur drew his straw - the shortest in the bunch. He shrugged and went to get his sleeping roll and Sparrow joined him, bundling beside him and several others who all huddled close to one another for warmth. Fortunately, it was a cloudy, windless night, so despite their excitement or anxiety about the long trip ahead of them, the night was warm, and sleep came fast upon them all. Within the cabin, John curled gently around his son, his arm slung over him so that his hand rested on Abigail’s shoulder. Abigail met his eyes in the semi-darkness of the cabin and she reached a hand over to cup John’s face.

“I love you, John Marston,” she told him in a near-silent whisper.

“I love you, Abigail Roberts,” John responded, smiling to her. He moved his hand from her shoulder to gently stroke his fingers through Jack’s hair. “He’s our boy,” he said softly. Abigail swallowed.

“He looks like you.”

“That’s ‘cuz he’s mine,” John told her with no hesitation. “He’s gettin’ big. I missed a lot,” he admitted, frowning.

“There’s still plenty of time,” Abigail promised. John moved his hand back to her waist and she took it with her own, giving it a squeeze. “Best get some sleep. Tomorrow will come early.”

\------------

The journey into Canada was remarkably uneventful. They were travelling in the summer, so fresh water from melted mountain snow was readily available, game was easy to find, and the roads were easy to traverse. Though they were both nervous about being caught, Sparrow and Arthur found that no one gave them any problems when they submitted the final paperwork for the land. Just like that, the gang found themselves in possession of five hundred hectares of virgin land.

The road to the land was rough, but much of the area surrounding it had already been settled. They found a small town with a decent general store a few miles from their new property and replenished many of their stocks, paid for with Sparrow’s deep pockets. She also paid outright for the supplies for housing, and the next thing they knew, they were no longer nefarious gang members on the run from the law, but they were instead settlers of a new town, a town they could name and run on their own. Things were good, and even Dutch seemed to have calmed, though he spent a great deal of time on the journey to the place in a foul temper.

Arthur didn’t want to get his hopes up, he didn’t want to let himself be too happy, lest it all go to hell again. He still gasped for breath, especially in the higher altitude air, and his skin was still pale, his lungs still weak. Even so, life, for the time being, was good.

Houses were built, and with the help of everyone chipping in, the land began to be tended. Sparrow paid for a flock of sheep and a herd of cattle. Arthur and John rounded up some wild horses and tamed them. Abigail, Sadie and Tilly planted a garden, and they found, to their deep amusement, that Swanson was a remarkably good gardener. He had quite a green thumb and soon the gang had access to fresh cabbage, squash, onions and potatoes.

A year passed in quiet harmony.

John and Abigail married. The ceremony was small, but everyone attended, relieved, at last, that the two of them had settled down together. John, together with Arthur and Charles, taught Jack how to hunt. Javier helped John teach Jack how to fish.

Charles arranged for refugees from the Wapiti tribe to be given housing and their little town grew. They had no name for the town, but that would come later, everyone figured.

Tilly met a quiet young man who had come here for the hunting and he joined the group, happy to offer his assistance with hunting game in exchange for housing.

Others came from here and there, offering labor in exchange for a place to stay, and most were accepted, though others were forcefully run off for being nasty, and eventually the citizens of the small, unnamed town agreed that any new folks added would have to be approved by a vote.

Molly and Dutch were on again, off again companions, sometimes sharing a bed, though more often they bickered and fought and Molly moved into the small house the single women stayed in.

Mary Beth finished a manuscript and mailed it into a publishing company with a letter from Sparrow commending her work.

Molly, who had learned a bit of humility from her troubles, helped Karen get a small hotel and saloon up and running. Karen managed the place nearly on her own, finding a fresh sense of purpose in being a businesswoman. She arranged for liquor and beer to be delivered often enough that their small town made a bit of money as hunters and fishers and other stragglers made their way through with a large thirst for alcohol.

Albert Mason made a short visit, delighted to see Arthur and Sparrow once again, and though he didn’t stay long, he did drop off a book – a field book of their collective work. Arthur went quite red when he opened it and saw the names printed there – “Artwork by S.N. & A.M. Callaghan. Photographs by A.R. Mason with assistance from A.M. Callaghan.” Arthur’s sketches and a few drawings he had done with the colored pencils Sparrow had given him so long ago had made it into the book, a public, permanent record of his work.

“I…I don’t quite know what to say,” he had murmured, finger lingering over his own name in the book.

“‘It was a pleasure working with you’ will more than suffice,” Albert assured him with a timid smile.

Spring came, and the soft calls of White-throated Sparrows filled the prairies and woods.

Dutch seemed to half-hate this so-called paradise he had once wanted, and he would disappear into his house for hours on end, mumbling to himself and writing frenetic pages, swearing to anyone who would listen that his eventual novel would top any of Evelyn Miller’s. Arthur worried about him, but didn’t think there was much he could do for his former mentor. Dutch was Dutch, and that was that, but his paranoia and odd habits were concerning. Javier and Bill defended him vehemently anytime anyone expressed concern.

Trewlawny quietly crept away one evening after a particularly bad argument with Dutch. They received a letter and some money from him a month later. He had sought out a career in New York. This surprised no one, but it did seem to break the heart of one of the women who had recently joined their little smattering of townsfolk.

Arthur, sipping a cup of coffee on the porch of his house, saw a figure approaching on horseback and raised a friendly hand.

“Well, now. Long time no see!” he greeted, though he was wary of the familiar visitor. Their last encounter had not been a pleasant one. The man tipped his hat and held up his hands to indicate he meant no harm.

“Heard you had quite a homestead going up here. Heard a certain Arthur Morgan was up here going by Arthur Callaghan.” Arthur hummed thoughtfully, concerned that someone in the area knew who he was. He wondered if Bill had been running his mouth again.

“That’s true enough. What brings you here, Mr. Brenham?” David Brenham, former bounty hunter, gave Arthur a broad smile and climbed down off his horse. “Not a bounty, I hope,” Arthur said, hand subtly sliding from his belt buckle to be nearer to his side arm.

“Not a bounty,” Brenham assured him with a small laugh. “Not this time. I was wondering, are you still looking for laborers here? I got a piece of land that’s not too far off, but if I could roam my sheep over here, I figured I could offer some of my labor in exchange for grazin’.”

“Well, now I don’t see any problem with that,” Arthur said reasonably, relieved when Sparrow stepped out of the house behind him, wiping her hands on her apron. Mr. Brenham still made him uneasy.

“Mr. Brenham!” Sparrow exclaimed. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Ma’am,” he greeted her, tipping his hat. “I never did get to thank you for your generosity a while back. But here I am. ‘Thank you.’ You changed me and my boy’s life with that money, but I don’t know that I can ever repay you.”

“Nonsense,” Sparrow told him, wrapping an arm affectionately around Arthur’s waist. “You didn’t take my husband from me. That’s payment enough. Would you like to come in?”

“I can’t stay, I’m passing through on my way to Calgary,” he told them, “but I would like to discuss the grazin’ agreement more sometime soon, Mr. Morgan.”

“Callaghan, please,” Arthur reminded. “And shoar. We can discuss it, but this town here, it’s a…what in the hell did you call it, Sparrow?”

“A direct democracy,” she said with a small smile. “If you’re wanting to work with or live with us, you’ll have to be approved in a town meeting. Next one’s in two days. Think you can make it?”

“I’ll be there,” Brenham assured them. “Good day to ya.”

“And to you,” Arthur said, waving as Brenham rode away.


	32. Town Meeting

Sparrow stood at the small cookstove in the kitchen, scrambling eggs. The dull sizzle of bacon on one side of the cast iron skillet sounded exquisite to a snoozing Arthur, who snuggled more deeply into the down of their mattress. The comfort had been hard won from a flock of particularly nasty geese and he treasured the plushness and warmth it provided, especially as autumn dwindled and winter began its decent upon their small town, nestled in a valley of Rocky Mountain foothills south and east of the railroad town of Banff, which had been established not quite a decade before.

Arthur blinked blearily and smiled at the sight of his wife cooking breakfast in the kitchen area of their one-room home. His heart warmed and his breath was nearly taken away, not by cold air or by disease, but by the thought of how happy he was, at last.

“Good mornin’,” he greeted, standing and stretching languidly with a small groan in his throat as joints popped and tendons thrummed to his satisfaction. Sparrow turned to him with a small smile, a spatula in her hand. Arthur’s morning wood was standing hard and enthusiastic, the head of it red and the dark vein that ran down the underside clearly visible. It twitched when he tightened his abdomen, giving her a lascivious look. “You seem to have caught me with my britches down, ma'am,” he told her, palming a hand over his balls and his cock, toes curling where he stood, his hair a haze of golden brown around his face, a mess of soft strands.

“I think I remember this one,” Sparrow said with a small chuckle, remembering their first encounter so long ago. She set the spatula down and sauntered toward him. “I think you mentioned it was dangerous being out alone?” Arthur pulled her in close, rubbing himself against her skirt suggestively.

“As I recall, you offered to protect me,” he teased.

“I’m glad I did,” Sparrow told him softly and he cupped a hand behind her head and kissed her gently, dipping her downwards as though they were dancing. She smiled up at him, reaching a hand up to stroke his jaw.

“You don’t paint on Wednesdays no more,” Arthur commented, meeting her eyes, missing, in some ways, the seclusion of their time in the wilderness, missing her painting and drawing, missing exploring with her at his side. But they were home now, truly home. Warmth spread though his belly as he held her.

“Hmm," Sparrow hummed a sound of contentment. "I’ve got all the art I need right here.” She ran her hand down Arthur’s bare belly to his groin, grasping his cock in a warm hand.

“Them eggs’s gonna burn,” Arthur warned, sucking in a breath as Sparrow ran her hand up the length of his cock and then back down with a practiced motion.

“Guess I oughta go back to cooking then.” She turned away from him and returned to the stove, stirring the eggs and flipping the bacon with her spatula. Arthur stepped up behind her, lifting her skirt, a simple homespun cotton garment printed with little blue swallows and yellow green leaves. Sparrow was wearing nothing beneath it, he realized, raising a brow in surprise and delight. She ignored his attention except for the smallest of smirks sliding over her lips.

“Smells good,” Arthur commented, inhaling the heady, salty scent of bacon and eggs cooking, though they were the farthest things from his mind. He nibbled at Sparrow's earlobe and kissed down her neck, biting at the junction of her shoulder and sucking lightly. She let out a soft sound that told him that he wasn’t being ignored. He drug the head of his cock along her hip before sliding down until his knees hit the floor and he pressed on her back while simultaneously pulling her hips toward him, tipping her so that her slit was in reach. He rubbed a finger across it and was pleased when he felt her push against him, so he licked the soft flesh there, worrying it with his tongue before darting into her folds and tasting her. Arthur slid a finger home and stroked within her until eager wetness began to drip from her.

“You gonna ma –” Sparrow gasped as Arthur stood and sheathed his cock within her with a groan, “– ake some of your terrible coffee this morning?” she finished as he grasped her hips and pulled out before sliding back in with a deliciously filthy wet noise.

“Ooh darlin’,” Arthur ground out, biting her again on the shoulder, hard enough that she gave a squeak of protest.

“You stop that!” Sparrow chided him, throwing a bit of egg over her shoulder at him. He snatched it out of the air with a hand and popped it in his mouth before returning his hand to her hip.

“Hmm, mebbe I shoulda left this ‘til after breakfast,” he hummed, feeling the familiar tingling sensation of orgasm already creeping up from his toes. His stomach growled in agreement. He was hungry, and it was distracting, but he had no intention of stopping now, he thought as he grabbed Sparrow's hips firmly.

“Maybe we can continue this in a location that’s less likely to end up in a burn injury?” Sparrow suggested, removing the skillet from the heat now that the eggs and bacon were thoroughly cooked. She turned around, forcing Arthur to slip out of her before sauntering to the bed, swaying her hips temptingly as she held her skirt up so that her backside and legs were still exposed to him.

“Lord have mercy, I will never tire of seeing that plump ass wavin’ in the breeze,” Arthur told her. Sparrow’s head whipped around.

“‘Plump’?!” she demanded, hands now on her hips, her skirt falling back down around her ankles. Arthur, taken aback, laughed nervously.

“I meant ‘healthy.’ ‘Round.’” His voice lowered with lust. “Hips I can grab onto and bury myself in. Don’t you get mad at me that I appreciate your body, sweetheart.” Sparrow smirked.

“I ain’t mad. But I also ain’t plump.”

“Oh yes you is,” Arthur insisted, a growl in his throat, and he pinned her to the bed, shoving her skirts up roughly with a grunt as he pushed back inside of her. She let out a little squeal and he smirked, satisfied. “These hips,” he went on, burying his hands in her asscheeks, his fingers sinking into hard muscle and soft fat, “They’re the kinda hips a man can ride for hours and hours,” he told her, his own hips keeping up a steady, slow roll into her. Her walls tightened around him and she gave a cry as she climaxed, her hand reaching behind her to squeeze Arthur’s.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too, darlin’, God, I love you.” Arthur slid a hand beneath them both and rubbed at her clit until she moaned, crying out his name like a litany.

Arthur moved within her, pressing himself to her as though he wanted to remove the distance between them, as though the very air between their skin was too much of a separation. He turned her beneath him so they were facing one another and she clung to him, her legs encircling his waist, pulling him closer, her crossed ankles tugging him inexorably into her, her fingernails raking down his sides as he made slow, thorough love to her, pressing in and out of her until she was shaking with it, until her insides ached and her legs trembled and he was thoroughly out of breath.

When at last Arthur spent himself within his wife, he drew her close.

“Don’t suppose you’d consider not drinkin’…that stuff?” he asked her softly, his voice wavering. She knew he meant the tonic she drank to control her cycles, a trick she had learned as a doctor’s daughter.

“Arthur…I’m not passing this on,” she murmured, grabbing his hand and holding it to her chest where her inconstant heart beat an unreliable march, a constant reminder of the curse she carried. Arthur’s forehead bumped hers.

“I know,” he whispered. “Still…” Sparrow met his eyes, wiping a strand of hair behind his ear.

“I’ll think about it,” she promised. Arthur drew her close, seeing the guilty expression that crossed her features, seeing the pain there, the longing.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was a quiet whisper, full of regret and sorrow. Sparrow sucked in a hard breath and he hugged her to him. “Don’t. Don’t cry. You’re all I need, darlin’. You’re all I need. I just wanted a part of you to keep on in this sorry world. But you’re right. Passin’ that heart condition on to our little girl or boy…I can’t abide the thought of it.”

“It’s not just that…you and I, we’re doing better but…”

“But there still ain’t a guarantee we’ll keep that way,” Arthur murmured, nodding solemnly. “Come on,” he said, clambering out of the bed and pulling her up, feeling awkward now, having made her upset. “Breakfast has got to be cold by now.”

“Breakfast is something more closely approaching lunch at this point,” Sparrow chuckled, sniffling a bit. They ate their cold breakfast just as the clock struck noon, but the both of them were deep in thought, each thinking about what they had, and what they wanted.

\----------

“Town meetin’s tonight. You feeling alright, darlin’?” Arthur asked Sparrow, his brows furrowed in concern. At first he had thought she was still upset by his comments this morning, but he swiftly realized it wasn’t just that. He had noticed her grasping at her left arm, a habit he often saw just before she had to lie down, her head going light and her skin leeching color. Sparrow said nothing, just took a shaky breath, looking up at him with a kind of panic that sent a cold stab through Arthur’s core. “Sparrow?” he asked.

“I’m…I’m alright,” she assured him, looking sheepish. “It’s just…just the usual,” she forced out with a weak smile. He wrapped an arm over her shoulder and drew her close, kissing her on the temple.

“If you need to miss it…”

“I might, actually,” she agreed, sitting down at the table in the kitchen with a small huff of breath.

“Alright. You want me to bring you anything from Karen’s?” Arthur asked, rubbing Sparrow’s palm with his thumb, a worried habit he had started whenever Sparrow was feeling unwell. The touch of his skin against hers comforted him, let him know she was still with him, still warm and alive. The thought of losing her terrified him. The thought of losing anyone terrified him. He had lost so much, and come so far. Tonight’s meeting weighed heavily on his mind. Arthur had mentioned Brenham's interest in joining their town to Dutch and the older man had interrogated him about it, his brown eyes wide and his clothing rumpled. He was having one of his manic days, Arthur had realized too late. When Arthur finally admitted who Brenham was and how they knew one another, Dutch had ranted against allowing the man into town, spitting about “faith” and “honesty” and being “trustworthy,” as though Dutch knew what any of those words meant, Arthur thought bitterly.

“Hey!”

“What?” Arthur asked dumbly. Sparrow frowned at him.

“You asked me if I wanted anything. I said a peppermint stick and you just stared at the wall. Are _you_ okay?” He nodded.

“Just worried about tonight. Dutch seems…more on edge than usual. Back like when we had come outta Blackwater. He doesn’t seem to believe we’re free of all of that nonsense.”

“He also doesn’t seem to believe in working for a living,” Sparrow commented dryly.

“Well. He ain’t accustomed to it. Settlin’ down. Growin’ his own food. He hates it, but me? I love it. And I love you,” Arthur told her, his voice going soft and sweet, one edge of his lip raising in a smile.

“I love you too,” Sparrow assured him, fiddling with the silver wedding band on his finger. “Go on. I know you want to have a beer or ten with John before things get started.”

“Well, he’s got that little one on the way. Don’t expect to see him much one it’s born. He's got bags under his eyes already from worryin’,” Arthur gave a laugh. “Poor kid didn’t know what he was getting himself into, startin' a family.”

“He knew full well. He just needed to grow up.”

“Hmm. You’re right. Never thought I’d see the day those two would be…well, what they are, but. They’re happy. And he loves her.”

“She loves him too. He’s all she talks about when she comes over here. I used to think she hated him, the way she’d talk about him, and hell _to_ him, but she was just frustrated. Just wanted him to come home to her at the end of the day.”

“He’s done that and more. I’m proud of him.” Sparrow tilted her head.

“Maybe you ought to tell him so. I don’t imagine he’ll ever hear it from Dutch. Anyhow, off you go,” Sparrow said with a little smile. "Tell Charles and Sadie 'hello' if they show up for the meeting."

"I'll bring 'em by if they come," he promised, grabbing his hat and buckling his gunbelt on, checking by habit that it was clean and loaded. Sadie and Charles frequently wandered the wilderness together, preferring one another's company and wide open spaces to the concentration of humanity in the town. They still visited, and together with Uncle and Miss Grimshaw, they had built a cabin. The two never stayed there much, but Miss Grimshaw kept two beds made for them, lest they decide to spend a night or two at home. They sometimes attended the town meetings, but more often than not they were out hunting or fishing or whatever it was they got up to together. Arthur missed them terribly when they were gone, but he rarely joined them. All things considered, he was well, but he did still have consumption, and he had to be careful about going out on long trips or expending himself too much.

When he entered Karen's bar, he was greeted with a friendly wave from both her and John. Molly was polishing glasses in the back and she raised a hand. Arthur had noticed a slight widening of her face and a bulge growing at her belly, but he had opted not to comment on it. He wondered if the child was Dutch's. Not his problem, he decided, as he sat and accepted a beer.

"Hey John," he said, tipping his glass into the younger man's.

"Arthur," John greeted with his tight, closed lip smile.

"How goes it?"

"Had a late calf two nights ago. Gonna have to keep it warm in the coming months, but, I'm glad of it. Life's good, Arthur. Real good."

"So far," Arthur chuckled. "Don't ruin it."

"Hey," John objected, but Arthur cuffed him on the shoulder.

"I'm just jokin'."

"I know," John admitted with a small smile at Arthur. "Where's Sparrow?"

"She's pretty tired," Arthur said, not elaborating. "She prob'ly won't be here tonight. How's Abigail?"

"Cranky," John answered immediately, staring into his beer.

"You excited?" John looked over at Arthur.

"Has _anyone_ ever been excited about losing sleep for three consecutive years, Arthur?" Arthur snorted.

"Good to know you've learned to look on the bright side, Marston." John smirked.

"I am excited, Arthur, but I'm scared too. What if I screw up again? What if...what if I wasn't made for all this family business?"

"Well, you just focus on not takin' off again and I'm sure the rest will work itself out. Besides, you do anything other than right by Abigail and your kids and I'll toss you in the river, Marston." John snorted, but he looked amused.

"I'm hopin' it's a little girl," he confided in a small voice, running a fingertip along the top of his beer glass.

"She's gonna have you wrapped around her little finger if it is," Arthur chuckled. "How's Jack?"

"Good. Abigail says he's too young to be holdin' a gun, but I took him huntin' last week and let him pull the trigger while I held the gun. He'll get the hang of it."

"You know there's more to life than pulling a trigger, John."

"I know," John said in a defensive tone. "I just...I just want him to be ready for the worst, you know? What if something happens? What if the Pinkertons find us?"

"They ain't gonna find us. Them letters we sent caused Cornwall a whole heap of trouble best as Sparrow can tell. She's asked around by telegraph and he's focusin' on his public image and buyin' up more land, routin' more train lines. He's got the Pinkertons going after some new gang that's harassin' him. I ain't much for being an optimist, but I think we're alright. Well, as alright as we'll ever be, I guess. How's Dutch?" John sighed.

"Not good. I swung by last night and he had papers tacked up every where. He's lost his mind, Arthur. Worse than before." Arthur scowled and wiped a palm across his lip to clear it of the foam from his beer.

"I don't know what to do to help him."

"You can't help 'im," Molly chimed in, a sad look on her face. "B'lieve me, I've tried. He doesn't want help. He just..." Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "He just wants to write that damn book of his." Her hand went to her belly. "Best leave 'im be when you can," she advised. Swallowing, Arthur bit the inside of his lip and finally spoke.

"You alright, Molly?" he asked her. She met his eyes.

"Do I look 'alright,' Ar'tur?" she demanded in a bitter tone.

"You look lovely, Miss O'Shea," he told her, knowing she needed a kind word. Her gaze fell.

"T'ank you, Ar'tur. D'you want another beer?" Molly gestured to his empty glass. He scowled.

"Sparrow says I oughta cut back. What my belly and my lungs has to do with one another is beyond me, but, there it is," he said, vaguely disappointed, though in reality, he wanted to stay stone cold sober. Something felt off about today. He wanted to be ready for it. The afternoon turned into evening and John drank himself into a state of calm relaxation, a stupid expression crossing his features. Arthur, meanwhile, had allowed himself a beer per hour, but kept a steady grip on his senses.

The populace filed in, all the former gang members, several Wapiti and nearly a dozen or so others who had joined, though Charles and Sadie were noticeably absent. Dutch blasted in the door, grinning at everyone, making loud, raucous statements to the women and razzing the men where he thought he could get away from it. His eyes were bright and his clothing was neat. Perhaps he was back to his usual self, Arthur wondered, but then, his usual self could still be unpredictable at the best of times, and downright cruel at the worst. Without Hosea to temper him, Dutch's slim grip on humanity and humility seemed tenuous at best.

When Brenham showed up, he came with his boy, Matthew. Arthur was shocked to see the difference time had made. The boy had filled out and was healthy-looking, all smiles and polite greetings to the adults who bothered to acknowledge him. He went off somewhere with Jack when Abigail shoed up, and the two got into God-only-knew what sort of mischief while the adults caught up and chatted, drinking beer or whiskey, poured by Karen and Molly. Tilly came in, arm-in-arm with her beau Boudreaux. The two were thick as thieves and an engagement ring sat on her finger, shiny and new, her smiles beatific as women noticed the ring and commented on their upcoming nuptials. Folks seemed happy and they were very friendly with Brenham, but Dutch did not seem pleased by this. After only an hour or so of socializing, he confined himself to a corner, smoking a cigar and staring darkly at the denizens of his purposed domain.

Town meetings had very little structure, generally, but a few people stepped up and shared their news. Tilly would be marrying Boudreaux in March and they were all invited, provided they brought something for a potluck-style dinner. John had a new calf and was planning on selling it in spring, for the right price, he advised with a proud little smirk. Pearson would be ordering some spices and needed to know if anyone would go in with him on some truffle powder. Uncle wanted to set up a distillery and needed a hand with the assembly.

At last, the time for voting on town matters came and Brenham stepped up to say his piece.

"Hello, all. Some of you folk may know me, or at least, you've heard of me. Mr. Morgan, er Mr. Callaghan there was once a bounty of mine, but his wife set me on the straight and narrow. Since then I bought a piece of land and I've been tendin' my sheep. I told Arthur I'd like to graze my sheep over here in exchange for some meat, and wool, and labor. Reckon it's the least I can do to repay Mrs. Callaghan for her generosity. Well. That's about it. Hope you'll see fit to let me." He stepped down and Dutch stared from where he stood. Everyone else was seated or leaning against the bar or the wall, relaxed, but he remained standing, his usual behavior since he still considered himself the leader here.

"Well. Mr. Brenham. I've seen my fair share of saints and sinners and..." Dutch gave a low, dangerous chuckle, "I can't say that you're one of the saints. We came here, all of us, trying to escape people like you. And here you are, scheming. Planning our downfall, no doubt. How much did Cornwall pay you to come here?"

"Cornwall?" Brenham asked, confused.

"Oh hell," Arthur murmured, shifting in his seat. He glanced over to John, who had sobered.

"It's a simple question, Mr. Brenham. How. Much. Did. Cornwall. Pay. You. To. Be. Here?" Dutch paced toward him like a lion approaching an injured gazelle, all ill intent and slavering jaws beneath a stoic exterior.

"I ain't a bounty hunter no more, Mr. Van Der Linde, I swear it." Dutch's gun was out in an instant and the gathered people gasped collectively. Javier, who had been leaning lazily against the wall, straightened, brown eyes sharp, his hand going to his side to pull his knife from its sheath. Arthur put his hand on his sidearm, swallowing.

"Dutch. Put the gun down." Dutch's gaze turned to him and his eyes narrowed.

"Always the doubter. Always the first to turn on me. Why...why am I not surprised, Arthur?"

"You can be as surprised as you want, Dutch," Arthur told him, resigned, "just put the gun down." Jack and Matthew went tearing past the gathered adults, giggling, oblivious to the tension in the room. Dutch snatched Matthew by the shoulder and a murmur settled over the room as the boy cried out and struggled in Dutch's vice-like grip.

"You aren't welcome here, Mr. Brenham." The man's face had gone very white, all the color pouring out of him so that he looked like a ghost.

"Okay. Okay, I'll go, I'll take my boy, and I'll just go."

"No." Arthur's jaw nearly dropped. Dutch was insane. He'd seen it, they'd all seen it, but not a damn one of them had done a thing about it.

"Mr. Van Der Linde - Dutch, he's just a child, let him go!" Miss Grimshaw exclaimed, standing suddenly.

"Shut up, Susan. Dutch is right. We can't let him leave. He'll bring the Pinkertons here," Bill interjected. John stepped toward Dutch with careful movements, getting closer to Jack, who was standing near Matthew still, terror on his face now that he had recognized danger. He had wet himself, a dark spot showing on his britches, and he was trembling with fear, unable to move.

"That's enough, Dutch. Let the boy go. We can talk this out," Arthur said, holding his left hand out reasonably. Dutch's eyes darted instead to the hand still resting on his sidearm. A sneer crossed Dutch's features and his eyes hardened to impenetrable diamonds full of hatred and madness.

"No. No we can't." He cocked his pistol, aiming it at Brenham's chest and his finger pulled the trigger.


	33. All you can give.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan. That is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Major character death (this character dies in canon, but in a different way than they die in this story)  
CW: Description of injury  
CW: Blood  
CW: Description of corpse  
CW: Abusive language  
Brief mention of VanDerMatthews in this chapter

Two shots rang out simultaneously when Dutch pulled the trigger and there was a flash of movement, and then chaos.

John, who had thrown himself in front of Brenham and grabbed the muzzle of Dutch's gun, crumpled to the ground with a whimper and Dutch just...collapsed. Dead, the instant the bullet entered his brain. All eyes turned to the person who had shot him.

Molly O'Shea, panting, held the rifle in trembling hands.

"Well. Someone had t'do it, didn't they, ya lousy bastards?! He's mad. You all saw it. You all knew it." There was utter silence except for the hard breaths coming from John. Karen pushed the muzzle of Molly's gun down and it was as though someone had shaken the ice from the room, letting everyone move again.

"John!" Abigail cried, rushing to his side. He breathed roughly, grasping at his left shoulder.

"Christ alive, that hurts," he moaned.

"What the hell were you thinkin', Marston?" Arthur snapped, bending over him and applying pressure to his wound.

"I was thinkin' I'd prevent him from killin' an innocent man," John snapped defensively. Arthur huffed out a breath and he smiled slightly.

"I don't think I've ever been more proud of you, John, but you're a dumbass."

"Thanks," John griped in a sarcastic tone, whimpering piteously when Abigail unbuttoned and pulled his bloody shirt away from his wound. Arthur looked up and met Brenham's eyes. The man was pale white, all color gone from his cheeks. His son was clinging to him, sobbing.

"Consider that your invitation to the community. Now get your ass outta here and go get my wife. Tell her John's hurt bad, tell her she needs to come doctor him, if she can. Go! Hurry! Your kid's safe here, you have my word."

"Arthur..."

"I swear to Christ, Brenham, you better start movin' or I'll put the hole in you instead. Go." Brenham pried his son away from his legs and was gone. Bill Williamson stalked toward Molly.

"You killed Dutch, you crazy bitch!"

"Don't you lay a hand on her," snapped Miss Grimshaw, pulling her gun from her boot, a tiny Derringer that she clearly knew how to use. Bill glanced to Javier, who was staring at Dutch's cooling body.

"Is he dead, _amigo?_" he asked, voice trembling.

"Based on the bullet hole in his temple, I'd hazard a guess that yes, he is fairly deceased," Uncle commented in an uncharacteristically grim tone.

"What do we do now?" Mary Beth asked quietly, looking first to Arthur, then to the others. Arthur clenched his jaw.

"What we've always done. Survive. We'll get John some help, then...then we'll bury Dutch proper." He looked away from the crowd as tears gathered in his eyes. John met his gaze and nodded slightly, wrapping his right hand around Arthur's forearm.

"It was only a matter of time before one of us had to put a bullet in him, Arthur," he reasoned in a soft voice.

"I think he would have thrown himself off a cliff before he let one of us kill him," Arthur disagreed, looking over at Molly. "But the poor bastard never even saw it coming. Just hang on, John."

"It ain't too bad," John lied, wincing. His blood was all over Arthur's hand and for a moment, Arthur wasn't really there. He was, instead, years and miles away.

\---------------

"I knew your father, son. I saw you. At the hanging, a couple of years back. And I saw you get yourself beat to hell by those older boys, just now."

"What the hell do you want, mister?" young Arthur Morgan demanded, his eyes red rimmed, his nose running. He sniffled and wiped his forearm across his face, one of his eyes already beginning to swell from the beating he had taken. Young boys didn't fare well living in the streets, and Arthur was no exception.

"I want to help you, son. Take you somewhere safe. My...my friend and I, we've got plans. Good plans. Plans to make money. To get out of this hell hole folks call 'civilization.' Come on, kid. Why don't you tag along?" The man held an inviting hand out, his handsome face kind and his brown eyes warm. Arthur had scoffed, and he'd ignored the hand, turning away.

He had not, however, left it at that. The man had been wearing gold cufflinks and an expensive watch and chain. Tempted by the prospect of having money to buy food, Arthur followed the fellow, planning on robbing him. He found himself taken aback when the gentleman greeted another older man just outside of town and planted a soft kiss on his lips. Dutch Van Der Linde's eyes sought him in the dark, a smirk crossing his features.

"You can come out, young fella. We live how we want out here. We do what we want. We take what we want. Come with us. Or don't. It's your choice."

"That's the boy you were talking about, Dutch?" the older man asked. "He looks about as sharp as a bag of socks, that one."

Arthur stepped forward out of the brambles he was hiding in, frowning.

"I ain't dumb if that's what you're sayin', mister," he snarled.

"Oh, I never used the word 'dumb.' Don't know if it would be adequate in this context," the man said in a dry tone, his eyes glittering with amusement.

"Don't mind Hosea, son. He thinks he's funny. We were just about to cook some dinner. Come on. Join us."

"What's in it for me?" Arthur demanded, cocking his hip in a way he thought would look casual and intimidating but really just made him look like he badly needed to take a shit. Dutch chuckled and looked to Hosea.

"Safety. Freedom. Family." Arthur jutted his chin upwards.

"And what do you want in return?" Dutch gave a broad, winning smile.

"All you can give, son. All you can give."

\------------

Sparrow pushed away her exhaustion and the dull thrum of her heart missing a beat occasionally and worked fast, demanding that they get John up onto a table where she could work. Someone hung a lantern from one of the beams so that she had light.

"What the hell were you thinking, John?" He was wheezing, his face pale and his features pulled in agony. He ignored her, instead making small, pained cries as she pushed away his shirt and prodded at the hole in his shoulder.

"I already gave him the business,'' Arthur muttered. "Go on, the rest of you, clear out! And get...get this body out of here. Get it someplace cool. We'll deal with that later. Meeting adjourned. _Shit."_

"I ain't goin' no where until that bitch gets what's comin' to her!" Bill hollered, pointing a thick arm threateningly at Molly. Arthur got right up in his face, thrusting his index finger just under Bill's nose.

"You will do just exactly what I tell you to do, _Marion, _or you'll join Dutch on the floor, you understand me?" Bill stared, sneering, but his will failed him and he stepped back, looking to Javier. The smaller man shrugged.

"Help me carry him, Bill. We'll take him to the shed outside. It's cold enough. _Pobre bastardo._"

"I brought a sheet from upstairs," Karen offered, extending it with a trembling hand. "God. I need a drink."

"Save it for John," Sparrow snapped. "Bring me a bottle of whiskey, Karen, I don't want him going into shock from the pain. And get some water boiling. Now!"

"Is he gonna be alright?!" Abigail asked frantically. Jack was behind her, tears leaking down his face. Sparrow met her eyes.

"He's gonna be fine, but you need to take your son and get him a change of clothes and something to eat. He doesn't need to see his daddy like this. Jack. Hey, look at me? It's alright. Everything's going to be okay. You take Matthew and you go with your momma down to Miss Grimshaw and Uncle's place. Mr. Brenham, you go with them, please. Here." She plucked John's hat from his head and sat it on Jack's. "You hang onto that for your pa, y'hear me? Don't lose it now. It's real important he gets it back. Abigail. Go. I've got him."

"I can't...I can't lose him again. Not like this. John. John, sweetheart," she cried, taking the hand of his uninjured arm. "Them things I said when those wolves got you, I didn't mean 'em. And I don't mean 'em now. Don't you die on me, you hear me? I love you."

"I love you too, Abigail," he told her weakly, a small smile flitting across his pained features. "Jack? You be good, son. I'll see you in a bit."

"Okay, pa," Jack said in a small voice.

"We'll have to find some doodlebugs, you and me. Out near the barn, maybe. Oh Christ," he whimpered as Sparrow pulled her forceps from her small medical kit, a thing she kept only for emergencies, like this one.

"Go, Abigail," she ordered, not looking up from her work. "That was a damn brave thing you did, John. You'll be alright."

"You reckon?" John asked weakly, giving a small huff of agony as she dug around in the bullet hole.

"Just...here. Bite onto this," she insisted, snatching Arthur's satchel up and grabbing a stale chunk of elk jerky from it. "Better to have to taste that than break your teeth, Marston. Now, I'm about to dig these forceps into that bullet hole. I gotta get it out, or it's gonna fester. And I'm not gonna lie to you. It's gonna hurt. Here." She took the bottle Karen had left and handed it to him. "Drink. As much as you can." John took the bottle and with her help raising it, he drained half of it before he had a coughing fit, sucking in air through his teeth at the burn of the liquor.

"That's...that's a lot better," he slurred as the drink hit his bloodstream. He looked at Sparrow blearily. "You're...you're real pretty, Miss Callaghan. Real...real pretty. Arthur loves you, you know?"

"Take a nap, Marston," Sparrow chuckled. "It'll all feel better in the morning," she lied. She waited for his eyes to close, but at the instant metal prodded into wound, his eyes snapped open and he shrieked in pain, writhing beneath her. "Arthur, help me hold him down, please." Arthur was staring after Bill and Javier, who had moved Dutch's body. He shook himself and approached, putting a solid hand on John's uninjured shoulder.

"Hold still, Marston. You're alright, boah. You 'member that time you rode through that patch of jumpin' cactus?"

"V-vaguely," John managed around another little gasp of pain. He had spat the jerky out, but he wasn't clenching his teeth, so Sparrow let the matter go.

"You was whimperin' and hollerin'. You remember?" John gave a quick nod, knowing Arthur was trying to distract him. "Hosea had me sit on you while he plucked 'em off you with the hoof nippers."

"And you ended up with one getting stuck on your ass," John chuckled, gasping in pain a second later.

"Yeah, well, I may have had that comin'. I'm the one that sent you to go get the prickly pears, knowin' you'd have to ride through the jumpin' cactus."

"Never did get those pears."

"Nope. Got them cactus, though," Arthur laughed. "Marston?"

"Yeah, Arthur?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the times I gave you shit when you didn't deserve it." John put a hand on his forearm, squeezing it and meeting his earnest blue eyes with hazy steel gray ones.

"You're my brother, Arthur. You got me outta that prison, stopped 'em from hangin' me. You kept my family safe, even when I was being too much of a jackass to do it myself. You're a good man, Arthur."

"Nah," Arthur objected and John gave a small, humorless chuckle.

"Arthur, you've gotta be good, or what does that make me? I've been trying to be good. I've been trying to be more like you. Is it working?" He asked, his voice sounding almost frightened, his eyes searching as though he had suddenly gone blind. Arthur looked at the puddle of blood beneath John's shoulder, remembered the sudden lunge in front of Dutch's gun with no hesitation or thought for himself.

"And then some, kid. I ain't the arbiter of right and wrong, but what you done? That was right. It was more than a bit stupid, but it was right. I'm proud of you, John."

"Arthur."

"Yeah, Marston?" Arthur asked, terrified that John was dying, watching as he grew more pale and as his consciousness began to slip away.

"I'm proud of you too. Hosea was proud of you. You're the best of us."

"And the worst," Arthur muttered, letting John's arm fall gently as he passed out. "Is he going to be alright, Sparrow?" he asked, watching as she dug around. With practiced hands, she at last found the bullet, just as she had seen her father do as a child. It had stayed in one piece, thank Christ, and it hadn't hit anything of particular import. She pulled it from the wound with a crow of victory.

"He'll be fine. Here, pour some whiskey over those tools and that thread."

\------------------

An hour or so later, looking tired but pleased, Sparrow stepped out of the saloon to give the news of John, who had been moved to a room above the saloon to rest. There was a crowd still gathered outside, all looking worried or angry or afraid, but no one said anything with Arthur hovering protectively near his wife, the enforcer of calm upon the chaos here.

"He'll be fine. I had to dig the bullet out, so I'm hoping it doesn't get infected, but he'll be okay. Maybe a bit stiff in that arm, though." Arthur nodded to every one and then started to walk away. Sparrow frowned, taking a step after him. "Where are you going, love?"

"I've got someone to talk to," he managed in a choked voice. He took her hand, squeezed it. "I'll be back."

He stepped out into the cool of the night, stepping into the storage shed where they had moved Dutch's body. He pulled the sheet away from Dutch's face, his breath hitching in his throat at the startling view of Dutch's brown eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

"I gave you all I had, Dutch. Everything. Almost from the minute you asked me to. But it was never enough for you. I should have known from the beginning." He stroked a hand through Dutch's hair, tears dribbling from his eyes as he felt the matted, sticky blood in the soft black locks. Gently, he pressed Dutch's eyelids closed, holding his hand there until they stayed that way. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I weren't good enough. I'm sorry you didn't think you could trust me enough. I'm sorry, Dutch," and his voice broke.

Uncaring whether anyone could hear him in the quiet of the shed, Arthur put his face in his hands and wept for all that he had lost, he wept for a man destroyed by madness, he wept for himself and for Lenny and Hosea and all the others. He wept until his tears ran dry and his head ached with it, his shoulders sore from the jolting rolls of grief that shook his body. His throat was dry and rough and still he wept, his face still buried in his hands and he screamed into them, a miserable, soul-deep cry of agony. Arthur could have used any comfort then, could have used someone or something to call upon, but in his grief he could not find it within himself to seek out solace from God, or his wife, or his friends or his family. Instead, he trudged slowly to the hitching post where his horse was tied and rode slowly out into the night, uncaring of where he was going, simply needing to be gone.

\-------------------

"Has anyone seen Arthur?" Sparrow asked frantically as the townsfolk made preparations for burying Dutch, someone having scrabbled together a half-way decent pine box to put him in.

"Haven't seen him in hours," Uncle said. "He's probly off wanderin' around until he's done being bothered by it. Pretty typical. I'm sure he's fine." Sparrow scowled.

"Well, I'm not so sure. He's still sick and it's getting colder. He doesn't need to be out in this." She glanced at the sky. It was already late morning turning into afternoon, but the sky was still dark. There was a storm rolling in. Most of the townspeople been up all night, tending to John, debating where to bury Dutch. Molly was sequestered away somewhere safe while some of the townsfolk argued that there needed to be some law brought into play, while others argued they didn't want or need law here. Yet others thought that, regardless of law, her actions were justified. It didn't matter much to Sparrow. All she wanted to know was where her husband was.

Sparrow heard the distant calls of a disturbed flock of birds and wondered if he had taken off into the forest. Her heart dropped. Had he taken a blanket? Did he have his bedroll and tent? She went out to the hitching post and tried to find his trail in the cacophony of both foot and hoof prints and finally found his horse's trail. She followed it out of town, hearing the sharp cries of a woodpecker and the soft chirps and songs of sparrows and warblers. Raising her hands to her mouth, she sucked in a breath and yelled.

"Arthur! Arthur, where are you?! Arthur!" There was the sound of thundering hoof beats behind her. It was Karen.

"Sparrow, we need you to come quick. It's Abigail. She's havin' the baby _now._ Please." Sparrow looked over her shoulder to the woods, terrified of losing Arthur, feeling guilty that she was considering abandoning Abigail in her time of need. She had halfway been expecting this, a slightly early birth due to all the stress. She sighed, wiping a tired hand over her face.

"Alright, I'll come. But I'm going to talk you through it and then I have to leave and find Arthur." Sparrow climbed up onto Karen's horse, clinging to the woman's sides, a litany firing though her mind again and again:

_ Please be alright. Please be alright. Please be alright._


	34. New Life and Old Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: description of child birth  
CW: dissociative experience

Arthur rode through the forest, nudging his horse along winding deer trails and through areas where the brush thinned. It was cold, very cold and Arthur could see his breath in the air, a billowing cloud of smoke emanating from his mouth as though there was fire burning in his chest. After a couple of hours, darkness fell over the earth, the heavens shining with bright stars and the aqua and golden swirls of the aurora. The beauty of it took Arthur's breath away and he pulled Goldie up onto a small, clear outcropping of granite where he could look up and behold the night sky in all its glory. He watched the flickering lights as they moved, waving like sheets of metallic grass across the stark blue black blanket of sky. He had seen the aurora before, but never this clearly or this bright, and never when he could be completely alone with his thoughts. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out his journal and his pencil. He licked the tip and sketched out the shape of the jauntily dancing lights, disappointed at his inability to truly capture the beauty, but he didn't make a habit of carrying the colored pencils Sparrow had bought him with him. He would have to add color later.

Arthur shivered, realizing that the more abrupt darkness that he could make out along the line of the mountainous horizon was a massive storm cloud. It began to consume the sky, eating stars and aurora like a starved beast. Wind billowed against the coat Charles had made him, and though the coat kept his torso and legs warm, the chill wind was still biting against his bare skin. His nose ran and he sniffled, patting his hands together to warm them within his gloves. He really ought to turn back, he realized, but he didn't want to. Where there had been grief there was now an abysmal numbness. Arthur didn't know quite how to feel about Dutch's death. It was not the death he would have chosen for him, certainly, and he berated himself for doing nothing to prevent it. But then again, what could he have done? Dutch had formed his opinions about Arthur and his loyalty, and he had never been quite right since Hosea, and since that trolley wreck in Saint Denis. He had always been a bit of a jackass, Arthur accepted, frowning, but he'd never been a murderer.

Not until Saint Denis.

The memory of the snapping jaws and hissing boom of the bayou gators sent a shiver down Arthur's spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He was crying again, he realized, soft tears rolling down his cheeks, catching in his stubble. Was John right? Was putting Dutch down unavoidable? Arthur bent his head and wiped his face with a shaky hand. He climbed back onto Goldie, patting the big animal.

"Come on, boah. Let's go." Arthur turned and looked back down into the valley, seeing the soft lights from the lanterns in the main town area, where Karen's saloon and inn, and Pearson's general store and restaurant stood. He knew they were probably still milling around down there, no doubt arguing among themselves about what to do with both Dutch and Molly and he felt a profound, bone-deep exhaustion flood him. He coughed into his fist, scowling. Arthur had felt and seemed better the past year, yes, but consumption was still consumption. It seemed to be in a sort of remission from all the teas and tonics Sparrow poured down his gullet, but it was still there, an ever-present rattle in the back of his throat. He would still die, and not from old age. But then, he had _never _expected to die of old age. It was more likely he would have taken a bullet to the back, or a rope around his neck, he figured, long before Downes had ever coughed into his open mouth.

Coming to terms with death again and again and again was wearing on Arthur. He knew he was still dying, but he no longer knew how soon. He knew Sparrow was still dying too and he knew every hour, every day, every week was a grim race to see who would go first. And now Dutch was gone, abruptly and awfully, a terrible death despite being instantaneous. He trembled for a moment in the cold night air, considering. Finally, he turned his horse's nose away from town and rode deeper into the wilderness just as snow began to tumble and flutter from the sky, landing in light bundles on his lashes, hat brim and cheeks.

\-------

There would be no leaving Karen to help deliver the baby, Sparrow realized as she gripped the tiny leg that poked out haphazardly from Abigail. She had been laboring for two hours, and Sparrow had known something was wrong from the way her breath caught and the way her belly was shaped as it contorted and writhed to push the new life into the world. Sparrow had felt within Abigail and across her abdomen and realized the issue, only to have the tiny leg appear as terrible confirmation of the problem.

"It's breech," she said, her breath hitching with worry. Abigail looked terrified.

"Is he gonna die? The baby?"

"Not on my watch, Abigail. Now, this is going to hurt something awful," she confessed, scrubbing her hands again in the nearly boiling water Miss Grimshaw had prepared. Sparrow was tired of saying that to the Marstons today. She was tired of bringing them pain, but at least after this pain they would have joy. She pushed the little foot back inside of Abigail, who screamed in agony.

"Where is John?" she sobbed, tears trickling down her face no matter how she tried to fight them.

"He's fine, Abigail."

"I want him _here,"_ Abigail keened in a piteous tone, her voice shaking. It wasn't the norm for men to be present for childbirth, but given John's history, Sparrow supposed she couldn't blame Abigail for wanting him to be with her. "He promised," Abigail wailed, "he promised he would be here for this one." Before Sparrow could give orders to have someone carry John from the saloon, there was a sudden bang and the door flew open. Heart in her throat, praying that it was Arthur, Sparrow's head whipped to see the intruder. It was John, pale-faced and exhausted. He had drug himself here, desperate not to abandon Abigail again. His arm was still in the sling Sparrow had made, but he was using his other arm to brace himself against the doorway, his breath coming in pained gasps.

"I'm here, Abigail," he announced in his gravelly voice, and then promptly collapsed.

"John!"

"The floor just sorta came up and met me," he commented from the ground as he struggled to get himself back upright. He was still half-drunk, Sparrow assessed, and he had lost a lot of blood.

"Uncle!" she hollered from where she was working, "get in here and make yourself useful! Drag a chair in here for John and help him into it!" Grumbling and huffing under his breath, Uncle obeyed, looking uncertainly at Abigail, who stared at him with a feral expression.

"You mind your business, old man," she snarled, a tigress beneath her sweaty, worried exterior. Even in her state of fragility, Abigail was a strong woman, all fight. Sparrow admired the hell out of her. She put a gentle hand on the inside of Abigail's leg to steady her as John was drug into place by Uncle. He held out the hand of his uninjured arm and Abigail took it. Her expression softened as she looked at her husband. "You look like hell, John Marston."

"And you look beautiful, Abigail Marston," he responded with a stupid little grin. She squeezed his fingers.

"You came. You're here."

"Of course I am. You alright?"

"I'm pushing a child out of me, what do you think?" she snapped and Sparrow chuckled at that.

"Don't push just yet. I've got to turn it. You ready?"

"As I can be," Abigail assured her, looking away from John for only a moment to say so.

"Alright. Here goes." Sparrow turned the child within Abigail and the woman shrieked, an awful, painful sound to listen to. John yelped as well, his hand in a vice grip, Abigail's knuckles going white as she held onto his fingers, smashing his knuckles together. "Almost there, Abigail, hang on," Sparrow told her.

"Oh, I should never have let you between my legs after Jack, John Marston, you son-of-a- oh my GOD that hurts!" Abigail yelled, but then Sparrow pulled her hands away and rinsed them quickly before grabbing a towel.

"Alright, you can push now, Abigail. Give it everything you've got, we've gotta get the baby out fast." Abigail pushed and a head covered in soft black hair began to appear.

"I am _never _beddin' you again! I'll have you castrated, I'll, oh Christ!" Another push.

"Abigail, baby, you're hurtin' my hand, you're hurtin', Abigail, please, I can't feel my fingers...!"

"When I chop your pecker off you won't be able to feel that either, John Marston!" Another push and Sparrow cradled a quilt beneath her as the married couple bickered.

"Christ alive, woman, it ain't _all_ my fault!"

"It's mostly your fault," Abigail hissed, and then with a massive force of effort, she pushed again and out came a dark-haired, wailing thing that screeched in protest at the cold of the room.

"Thank the Lord," Sparrow murmured, using the sharp scissors from her medical bag to cut the cord. She wiped the baby clean, swaddled it in a small quilt and handed it to Abigail, who took it readily.

"Wh-what is it?" John asked shyly, head craning to peer at his new child. Abigail smiled after she had adjusted the quilt to look, all her anger gone now that the baby was in her arms, and safe.

"It's a girl."

\--------------

Snow fell heavily now and Arthur had a hard time seeing the path ahead of him. He had stopped to camp for an hour or so, warming himself at a fire he had to fight to keep lit. The cold was terrible and piercing and the wind screamed, howling wild cries that made his heart leap, thinking wolves were nearby. He pushed his horse along the trail, eventually dismounting so that he could lead the way. He _hoped_ it was the right way, back toward town now that he had pondered his troubles and felt a bit more like himself. Everything was white and the snowflakes falling around him were a distracting cacophony of movement. He pulled out his compass, squinting to see what direction he was facing before he tugged his horse along.

"This way, boah," he advised, squinting to see through the flurries of snow. He took a step, muttering under his breath about how stupid this entire jaunt into the wilderness alone had been, and then he lost his footing, snow and scree slipping beneath him until he fell on his backside, losing his grip on his horse's reins.

Arthur slid, yelping as he felt ribs and legs ramming against trees and rocks, scrabbling to gain a hold on something, but the newly fallen snow made getting a grip difficult. His velocity down the slope increased until he skittered across an area of bumpy rocks and came to a sudden halt, his head slamming back against the ground. The world spun and went hazy, the edges of his vision closing in. He felt unconsciousness taking him and knew that he would freeze to death out here, alone, buried in the snow.

_This is a hell of a stupid way to die, Morgan, _he thought to himself, and then he thought no more.

\------------

A hush had fallen over the gathered men in the saloon at Sparrow's words.

"What d'you mean you haven't seen him since yesterday?" Molly queried in an exhausted voice. She was nervous near Bill, who was nursing a drink. Karen had gone upstairs to rest, leaving Molly alone with uncertain company before Sparrow came in.

"His horse is gone, and his coat and satchel. I think he went off into the wild. Dutch's death..." Sparrow let her voice trail off, her chest constricting with grief for someone who had once been a friend, and worry for her husband.

"It hit us all just as hard," Bill snapped. "That man was like a father to me, and a brother, he..."

"He had lost his mind, _amigo," _Javier interrupted softly from where he was trimming his nails with the edge of his knife. "You remember Guarma, Bill." Javier shook his head. "The Dutch we knew...the man who saved us from ourselves. He was long gone. We need to find Arthur. He needs to be here when we bury him."

"Oh to hell with Arthur!" Bill roared, throwing his hat onto the bar with a furious motion.

"And to hell with you, Bill," Javier jibbed back, holding his knife dangerously in a rock steady hand. "He'd go out for any one of us. He proved that to me. He would even go after your sorry ass, Bill. Come on, I'm going," he said, bundling his pancho around himself and adjusting his bowler hat on his head. Bill scowled nastily, throwing back his glass of whiskey and snatching his hat from the bar.

"Fine then. But we ain't done talkin' about this _mess."_

"I'll go with you," Sparrow said readily.

"Sparrow," Molly called in her soft Irish brogue, her green eyes pleading, the middles of her brows raised in an expression of supplication. "Please stay. I need to talk to ya, about somethin', somethin' important," she said, putting a hand on her swollen belly. Sparrow stopped reaching for her coat with a long suffering sigh.

"Alright," she agreed, and with her heart in her throat, she let Javier and Bill go look for Arthur without her.

\-------

Arthur wasn't cold anymore, or he didn't think so, now that he had awoken and shifted in place. He had fallen into a small wooded crevasse in the mountainside. From where he leaned against a huge oak tree, he thought that now the temperature was just fine. His mind was a haze of snow and a carousel of emotions. Guilt. Fear. Anger. Calm. Disappointment. Was this how it would all end? Was this the death that would have victory over all other deaths, taking him as he laid here in the snow, breathing roughly? Was he really going to die over some reckless expedition into the wilderness? Evidently so, he decided, pulling out a flask and taking a swig of gin.

A bird sang in a tree above him, a soft call that he recognized. He blinked to wash away the haze in his vision, to no avail. The bird sang again, and he smiled slightly.

"I know you, little bird." He reached a hand out and to his delight, it flew to perch upon his gloved finger. It threw its head back, revealing a crisp white throat. Its song could be seen as a twisting mist of breath in the cold air. "You always did say you'd be there for me, at the end, Sparrow," Arthur murmured. The little bird stared with liquid eyes, hopping up to land on Arthur's antlers to peer more closely at his face. Had he always had antlers? Arthur wondered blearily. The sparrow leaned down from its perch upon his antler and opened its beak.

"Arthur," it said. "Arthur. Hey. Arthur!" The bird was suddenly gone and darkness overtook him once more.

\---

From somewhere deep within his mind, Arthur heard familiar voices.

"Get those blankets on him. Would you please start some more hot water for the bottle, Sadie? His feet are freezing cold. You said he was just laying there?"

"Looked like he had taken a fall. He's lucky we were on our way back and saw his horse. Shit. His fingers are blue."

"I know, just...just get me that water, Sadie, please. Charles, pull that coat off him. The shirt too. Get him stripped down completely. We've got to get him warm and those clothes are soaked. Here, take this. Arthur, sweetheart. Arthur, please wake up. Hey. Please wake up." Sparrow's voice broke. "Don't make me lose you like this, you damn fool man. I need you here, with me. Arthur. Arthur, please. Arthur. I need your help raising the baby. Please."

Arthur's eyes peeled slowly open at that and he made a groggy sound in his throat, looking around in bewilderment at the faces staring down at him. He realized all at once that he was naked, but covered in piles of furs and quilts. He realized too that his fingers and toes burned as though he had stuck them in a fire. And lastly he realized that he was home, and alive.

"Baby?" he asked, bewildered, furrowing his brow in consternation. "We just talked about that not three days ago. How long've I been out?" He stared around the room for some indication of the passage of time, wondering if he had somehow been asleep for months. Sparrow chuckled softly, taking his hand.

"Not long enough for the baby to be mine, nor for it to be born yet. Molly's baby. She's saying she doesn't want it. She wants to go home to Ireland, but not with a child on her hip. It's Dutch's baby. I told her...I told her we could take care of it. If you want." Arthur's eyes widened and he struggled to sit up. "John and Abigail have agreed to care for it if...when something happens to me and you." Guilt crossed her face at that, but Arthur could feel nothing but joy. A little boy or girl to raise. A debt he could repay to Dutch, caring for his child. "I didn't mean to be presumptuous - "

"Yes," Arthur murmured. _"Yes._ We'll raise it. You and me." He looked down at himself, feeling a shiver work its way through him. "How long was I out there in the snow?"

"Not too long from the look of it. But I'd like to tan your hide, Arthur Morgan. Taking off like that without so much as a word or a note!"

"I'm sorry," he muttered, squeezing Sparrow's hand. She sighed.

"I know why you had to go, but it can't have been good for your condition, Arthur. Are you alright?"

"Did they bury him?" he asked in answer. Sparrow shook her head.

"They're doing it tomorrow. Swanson's planning on saying a few words. Everyone is, I think." Arthur shook his head.

"I already said everything to Dutch that needed saying. Everything else is between God and myself. But I'll go. I'll help bury him tomorrow, if I'm well enough." Sparrow didn't argue. "How's Brenham? His kid?"

"Shaken up, but everyone seems to have accepted him. It's really only Bill still causing problems. I think Javier is keeping him calm, though. Brenham rode back to his ranch to get his sheep. God only knows if he'll actually come back after all this mess." Arthur nodded and then reached for her cheek, stroking it gently.

"I nearly lost my chance again. I nearly lost you."

"You nearly lost your fingertips and the end of your nose," Sparrow chided him, breaking the seriousness of the moment. She leaned down and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

"Charles, Sadie," Arthur greeted finally, realizing they were standing awkwardly near the bed.

"That was pretty damn stupid of you, Morgan. You wouldn't have made it on our ranch. Had to have a rope from the shitter to the house so you didn't get lost in the snow. What in the hell were you thinkin' going out like that?" Sadie demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Solitude is a priceless thing," Charles broke in with his gentle voice, meeting Arthur's sad gaze, knowing why he had done it. "The way Dutch went...at least it was quick, Arthur. Not all of us have that privilege."

"If it's all the same to you both, I'd rather not speak on the topic anymore," Arthur grumbled, accepting a cup of hot coffee from Sparrow. with a look of gratitude.

"Why don't we give them some privacy, Charles?" Sadie suggested, taking his arm. The big man looked to her and his face softened.

"How likely do you think it is that we could kick Uncle out of the cabin for at least an evening?" he asked, rolling his eyes. Charles was tired after such a long hunting trip, and he had no interest in dealing with the ignorant old man. Sadie pulled out her sidearm and checked the chamber with a smirk.

"Fairly likely, I'd say." Sparrow guffawed at that.

"Hate to tell you two this, but the Marston's are at your place for the moment. With a newborn." Charles let out a small sigh, but then shrugged. "Thank you, you two, for finding Arthur, bringing him home. Javier and Bill couldn't find him and I was worried sick."

"Of course," Charles said with no hesitation. "Rest up, Arthur. You need it."


	35. Old Life and New Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Oral sex  
CW: Vaginal sex  
CW: Description of animal death  
CW: Major character death  
CW: discussion of death and afterlife
> 
> If you would like to skip the description of animal death, skip the paragraphs between the ***

The baby was a delight, a healthy baby boy with bright eyes and chubby cheeks, all smiles and friendly, seeking hands that liked to grab onto to Arthur’s hair and tug on Sparrow’s skirts. From the moment he was born, handed off to Sparrow and to Arthur by a disinterested Molly, he was the light of their life. Arthur had missed this, he realized, cradling the small form in his arms. He hadn’t been much of a father to Isaac, only dropping in only every few months. He had cared about his son, but he hadn’t really understood what he’d had until he lost it. And now, to have it again? It felt like a fresh start, almost too good to be true.

The baby, as most babies do, cried often and late into the night, and the two tired parents took turns awakening and feeding it. Molly had left almost immediately after the birth, heading back home to Ireland, but fortunately a few women in the area had milk to spare, Abigail included. Her little girl, Abby, was only a couple of months older than Hosea Leonard Callaghan, as Arthur and Sparrow had named him. Everyone called him Leo, and the name fit him. He had quite a mane of soft black hair, but his eyes were all Molly’s, a bright spring green that was piercing and intelligent.

Leo learned to walk, learned to talk, learned to get into all manner of mischief, often with Abby as his accomplice. The town, which had finally been named “Dutch’s Hope,” thrived. New couples moved in and older citizens either found love, or found success or found both. As the years passed, Arthur’s tuberculosis stayed in remission. This was unsurprising to Sparrow, who still kept up with medical journals and was in frequent contact with a certain Dr. Edward Trudeau, who had opened a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients. He believed, as Sparrow had discovered, that a life of activity, fresh air and healthy food could delay onset of the disease. Together with the teas and tonics she made for Arthur, he stayed healthy enough, though he was careful not to cough near Leo when he was an infant.

The two raised Leo as their own child, but the whole community chipped in to help, teaching the child and taking turns caring for him when Sparrow had a bad day with her heart condition. For her own part, she did the best she could, but she knew she would die before Arthur. On particularly awful days, he would lie beside her, refusing to leave her, should the worst happen. The two dutifully cared for one another, pushing death away for as long as they could. Sparrow served as the town’s makeshift doctor until one moved in, an older gentleman who was competent and mild-mannered enough that he wasn’t bothered by the various idiosyncrasies of his patients. He ordered all the things Sparrow needed for her tonics, and he took frequent and thorough notes on the state of her heart condition. Nothing could be done for it, however, so Arthur and Sparrow simply did as they had always done – cherished one another.

Arthur, his heart full, took Leo fishing with him frequently, though the first several times he did so the boy was too young to hold a rod, so he instead sat on Arthur’s shoulders, watching and babbling, a line of drool spilling onto the top of Arthur’s well-worn hat.

“You alright up there, boah?” Arthur would ask him with a small chuckle and Leo’s feet would kick in response. Sparrow often took the boy into the forest to learn about birds, and plants, and mushrooms. Between the two of his parents, Leo had picked up a pencil when he was little more than a year old, and he vandalized at least three of Sparrow’s field guides with his own happy doodles, getting into his father’s stash of colored pencils as well. The inside of their cabin walls sported bright streaks of paint at toddler height from the time Leo had climbed a shelf and located Sparrow’s old paints. No amount of scrubbing or soaking would get the paint off, but they found they didn’t mind much.

Leo grew strong, his little stout legs showing that he would one day be tall and strong like Dutch, though the fine bones of his hands and arms showed Molly’s grace. Regardless, he was as much Arthur’s and Sparrow’s boy as he was his real parents’. As he learned to talk, he took on Arthur’s friendly drawl, but he learned his mother’s more extensive vocabulary and could switch from a country twang to a more formal speech without thought. He played outside with Abby and with Jack, digging in the dirt and getting into every manner of thing, just as a boy should do when he is young.

He climbed trees and he fell from them. When he was four he broke an arm, but it was quickly splinted and it healed without too much difficulty.

Though the winters in Dutch’s Hope were bitterly cold, he happily bundled up in warm clothing, often provided by Charles, and played in the snow, his austere nose red in the cold wind. Charles and Sadie visited more often now that Arthur and Sparrow had Leo and they made a point of teaching the boy about the outdoors as well.

“If we all have our way, I don’t think he’s going to live in a house when he’s older, I think he’ll live in a tree,” Sparrow commented once, deeply amused. After all they had been through, after all their struggles and trials, it seemed that, for a few years at least, they could be a family.

For as long as Fate would allow them to be, they were happy.

\---------

The day dawned bright, light shining its warm fingers through the lacy curtains. Arthur awoke with a small yawn, blearily looking over at his still sleeping wife. He touched her cheek gently, frowning at the paleness of her skin. She had seemed tired recently. He considered going back to sleep, his eyes fluttering closed, his hair a mess against his pillow.***

There was a sudden _bang! _Eyes flying open in shock, Arthur leapt to his feet, snatched his side arm and made his way to the door, stepping outside in nothing but his union suit, his bare feet silent against the wooden floor. The sound had come from one of the windows. Something had struck it. He stepped around the corner of the house toward the offended window and let out a small sound of distress when he recognized what had happened. Fluttering on the ground below the window was a bright, familiar looking bird, one of the little White-throated Sparrows they both loved so much. Arthur scooped it up in his free hand. It was breathing rapidly, pulling in little frantic gasps of air and it flapped its wings once, making its light body jump in his big palm.

Heart aching, Arthur watched as it struggled, a little dab of blood appearing in its beak, one of its eyes smashed, its head hanging at an odd angle from the rest of its graceful form. It was done for. It had broken its own neck against the window pane, but it still had life in it, was still in pain.

“You’re alright,” Arthur crooned. “It’s okay. I’m here, I’ve gotcha. It’ll all be over soon. No more sufferin’, little fella,” he told in in a sad tone. Unable to allow it to continue to exist in misery, Arthur folded his fingers around it tightly until it stopped moving within his hand. He opened his fist and the tiny creature lay, lifeless, but no longer suffering. “What a _rotten _way to start a mornin’,” Arthur grumbled, swallowing. With deliberate motions, he smeared a bit of gun oil from his revolver onto the glass and dusted it with a handful of soot, making an obvious smudge so that the glass could easily be seen by all the little birds fluttering haphazardly around, careless of the dangers of windows. He scooped a divot out of the ground in the garden and placed the unfortunate bird into it, covering it with dirt. “‘Fraid I don’t know any good prayers for birds,” he told it with regret. “Hopefully you’re flyin’ free on the other side, friend.”

Arthur rinsed his hand in the water bucket on the porch and stepped back inside. ***

Sparrow was still in bed, her face pale and her mouth a little bit open. His heart skipped a bit as he looked at her, waiting for her to take a breath. There. He huffed a relieved breath and slid back beneath the covers. He looked over his wife’s lithe form and rested his hand upon her breast so that he could feel her heart still beating. At the touch of warm flesh, Arthur felt a randy streak of desire shoot through him, sending a warmth echoing through his flesh that gravitated to the space between his legs, making his cock twitch with interest.

“Hey darlin’,” Arthur greeted Sparrow in a soft tone, rousing her from sleep with a little shake. He was naked and erect beneath the sheets and she knew with a glance that he wanted to make love to her.

“Mmm. Morning, sweetheart,” she said, yawning and stretching. He kissed her and rolled himself so that he hovered atop her body, pressing his firm cock into the inside of her thigh and dragging it there lazily, his balls rolling over soft flesh in a way that made goosebumps shiver down his spine. “Is Leo still asleep?” Sparrow whispered, pushing on Arthur’s chest to stop his insistent movements.

“He ain’t made a peep,” Arthur assured her, nibbling at her jaw. “’Sides, he’s got that little horse I made him last week. He’ll play with it all day if you don’t distract him from it. It’s just you and me right now,” he murmured, kissing his way down her neck to the space between her legs, lapping at her slit with practiced, loving motions, knowing just how to bring her pleasure after more than five years of marriage.

Sparrow held in a loud sigh, muffling herself with her own arm as Arthur went to work, his tongue and his lips caressing her folds, his fingers rubbing against her wetness before sliding in, curling and gesturing with earnest intent, begging her “come to me,” and she did, tightening around his fingers with a little cry she couldn’t quite silence. Arthur let out a growl low in his throat and returned to her, kissing her on the mouth, his hand cradling her jaw, his other grabbing at her breast, massaging the soft tissue before resting for a moment above the place where her heart beat. “I love you,” he reminded her. They must have said it to one another thousands of times now, but neither ever tired of hearing it.

“I love you,” she whispered, taking his cock in her hand and sliding up its length and back down. She was about to dart under the covers to take him into her mouth, but he instead sat back and lifted her into his lap, his legs crossed beneath her. His shoulder and arm muscles bulged as he sat her down onto his cock. “Oh Arthur,” came her soft cry and he swallowed it as his lips met hers, his tongue vying for entrance to her lips, dipping within her mouth and tasting there, bumping her own tongue with soft caresses. His hands explored her familiar form, blunt fingernails scratching across her back and over her ribs, cupping her neck and pulling her closer as he let her rock over him. His belly tightened, pushing his hips up and pressing his cock more deeply within Sparrow’s willing body. Arthur shuddered, meeting her eyes.

“Darlin’,” he purred, moving again and her fingers tugged in his hair, “honey,” he whispered in her ear, biting its cup gently, “sugar,” he named her, his hands cupping beneath her asscheeks now so that he could raise and lower her more quickly, but it wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t deep enough, so she put her hand on his chest, shoving him down with a small smile.

“My big buck,” she murmured.

“My sweet Sparrow,” he answered sheepishly and she chuckled. She rode him then, her hips grinding up and down upon him, spearing herself with his eager flesh again and again, a hand sliding down to caress his balls, an exploratory finger circling the tightness of his hole and he moaned when it pressed inside, massaging his prostate in time to the roll of her hips.

Sparrow’s breath caught and she swallowed the fluttering sensation of her heart. She opened her mouth to gasp in air, holding her own hair up out of her face so that Arthur could see her expression as she climaxed, her face flushing, her eyes sliding shut with the ecstasy of it. Pulling off of him, but continuing her gentle ministrations of his prostate, Sparrow took Arthur’s cock into her mouth and moved her head up and down, suckling firmly at the hard rod, massaging within him all the while until Arthur’s toes curled in the sheets and a delicious noise was driven from his throat, his knees bending slightly and his hands suddenly tangling in her hair.

When Arthur emptied himself inside of her, he felt as though he had been undone, his eyes going wide with surprise at the overwhelming sensation of pleasure, and adoration. He looked down as his wife and she laid beside him, panting a bit with the exertion.

“That was a_ very_ nice way to wake up,” Sparrow whispered with a grin, pulling the blanket fully over them both and then cuddling into Arthur’s chest. He pushed away thoughts of his own unpleasant awakening and pulled her closer, tucking the sheet around them.

“Hmm. I reckon I can do it more often,” he laughed. They laid side-by-side, him brushing his fingers through her soft hair as she stroked up and down the inside of his arm, raising goosebumps there. The sun rose higher in the sky and the chorus of birdsong changed. Sparrow sighed softly against him.

“I ought to take Leo birding again. He seemed to like it last time. He stayed very quiet.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“Yes, he is. Did you see the picture he drew for me last week?”

“That little sketch with the bear and a possum?” Arthur asked with a proud smile.

“That’s the one. He’s got his father’s talent,” Sparrow observed. Arthur chuckled with a look of chagrin.

“Yeah, well, he’s got his father’s colored pencils again too.”

“Hmm. I ought to order some more. Maybe some wax crayons for him to use instead?” There was rattling from within the room of the subject of conversation, and in a few moments, out came a small form, dressed in a tiny green union suit holding a stuffed robin Tilly had sewed for him. Startlingly green eyes stared up at them from beneath black hair that gleamed with a red sheen in sunlight.

“Ma, Pa, it’s breakfast time,” Leo declared, his feet slapping on the wooden floor before he clambered up onto the bed between his adoptive parents.

“You are absolutely right, kid, but first we need to get some clothes on. How about you bring me them jeans over there?” Arthur suggested with a quick wink to Sparrow. Leo turned his back to grab the clothes and Sparrow snatched her robe from near the bed.

The little family made breakfast together once they were all dressed, pancakes with bacon and fresh blueberries picked from bushes that grew in the Marston’s back pasture.

“I think I’ll go for a walk this morning,” Sparrow said. “Leo, do you want to go with me to the Marston’s, see if Jack wants to let you follow him around, or if Abby wants to play?”

“Sure!” Leo said with gusto, his face smeared with syrup and blueberries. He tended to follow Jack around like a lost puppy, a constant source of irritation for Jack, but he was patient with Leo and was never cruel. Jack simply allowed Leo to stick to him like his shadow, and he sometimes read to both Abby and Leo to keep them quiet and entertained, which suited him just fine. It meant he got more time to read those books he liked so much.

“Alright, well, get cleaned up,” Sparrow admonished her son with some amusement.

“I’ll go with you, I ain’t got to break them horses today,” Arthur announced, grabbing his hat and a pair of binoculars. “You and I can go find some birds. We ain’t found any birds in quite some time.”

“Why do I get the feeling that ‘finding some birds’ is what we actually did this morning and you’re just coming back for seconds?” Sparrow teased and Arthur swatted her across the backside and then pulled her in for a kiss.

“Can’t say I didn’t try,” he chuckled, releasing her so she could grab her satchel with her notebook and other sundries.

They dropped Leo off at the Marston’s homestead, and for that, Arthur was grateful, for the rest of the afternoon was a tragedy.

Sparrow and he hiked through the heavily wooded area outside of Dutch’s Hope, craning their heads upwards to watch for birds, Sparrow sketching a few, though she had no intention of publishing another guide. Arthur noticed with concern that Sparrow’s cheeks had gone even more pale than they had been this morning. Just as he was about to suggest they take a break, she spoke.

“I think maybe I should sit down for a moment,” and she stumbled, Arthur barely catching her in time to prevent her from hitting the ground. He laid her down, his features pulled with concern. A hush had fallen over the forest, birds disturbed by the sudden movement and sounds.

“Sparrow, you alright? I can carry you to the doctor,” Arthur assured her. She laughed, her eyes going a bit distant.

“No need, my love. No need.”

_“No,”_ Arthur protested.

“It’s…I know it, this time, Arthur, this is it. It’s been the whole week. And look at me – thirty-seven. Why, that’s a whole year older than you were when I met you. I got a fair few more years than I expected,” she gasped out in a resigned voice. Arthur was cradling her upper body in his arms, making small sounds of distress.

“No, no, Sparrow, please, don’t do this, don’t leave me, please.”

“You…” she swallowed hard, clenching her jaw against the pain in her chest, “you tell our sweet boy that I love him. You keep showing him all the good things outside, show him how important they are. Show him that there’s things in life more important than money, Arthur Morgan. You do that for me, promise me.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it, I promise,” he agreed, but tears were streaming from his face now. It was such a shock. She had had so many bad spells, so many bad days. Why today?

“Better…” she gasped, “better this didn’t happen in front of the boy. You take care of him, Arthur Morgan. You take care of our boy. Don’t…don’t let him be like Dutch. And you keep Marston on the straight and narrow, you hear me?”

“I hear you darlin’, I hear you,” Arthur mumbled, holding her close. “You can’t be going, not yet. Not now, after all this.” He looked up to the sky, praying a silent, desperate prayer. He and God had never been on good terms, he thought, but prayer had worked last time it was this bad. _Please,_ he begged.

“All this?” she asked in confusion, her eyes glazing over now and Arthur’s body was wracked with a rough sob. “Arthur?”

“I’m here, darlin’, I’m here.”

“Arthur, what do you suppose happens when we die?” she asked softly. He gasped out another ragged sob. He remembered what he had told her last time, when they had first met, their first night together. He had told her, in cold terms, thoughtless, that when death came, one simply stopped existing. But that couldn’t be. _That couldn’t be._ He needed her still. Cradling her gently in his arms, knowing that at last the time he had been dreading had come, he whispered in her ear.

“There’s…there’s a big green field, all flowin’ with grass,” he told her, taking a shuddering breath, “and there’s…there’s them little brown owls all around. Burrowin’ owls. And there’s a lake,” his voice broke, “a lake with every kinda duck you ever did hope to see. Herons,” he promised her, “and swallows dippin’ down to get themselves a drink. And it’s warm. Lord, it’s so warm, Sparrow. The sun’s shinin’ out from behind a cloud. And in the distance, some woods. With,” he gave a small laugh, tears rolling liberally down his cheeks, “with creepers crawlin’ down the sides of the pine trees. And woodpeckers bangin’ their fool heads into the bark. There’s more sparrows than you can count. All the ones you taught me. They’re all there and more. And,” he let himself sob for a moment, unsure if she was listening anymore, but he continued, “and you ride, just a little ways, and you’ll come across a patch of desert. And it’s beautiful. All them pink and yella’ flowers bloomin, pretty as one of your pictures. And there’s,” his throat tore as he spoke, his voice breaking again, “there’s a peer-oo-lox-ia,” he fumbled the word, frowning, “a desert cardinal, sittin’ on one of them cacti, singin’ just as sweet as anythin’. And you watch, darlin’. You watch that you don’t trip over me, ‘cause I’ll be there. I’m comin’, when I can.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Sparrow sighed out.

“It is,” Arthur promised, petting the top of her head, pressing lips wet with tears to her forehead. “It’s the most beautiful sight you ever saw. I love you, Sparrow. I love you.” Above them in the mixed forest of firs and pines came the sad, sweet song of a White-throated Sparrow.

“You see?” she whispered, “I told you I wouldn’t leave you.”

“I know,” Arthur forced out. “I know.”


	36. By 1899, the age of outlaws and gunslingers was at an end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Major character death

The funeral was widely attended.

Nearly everyone who had ever benefited from Sparrow’s generosity came. Neither Albert or the Balfours could make it in time, even with the new trainline that had been built from Billings to Banff, but they sent their condolences via telegram. Arthur wept openly during the ceremony, his hat clutched in a white-knuckled grip, and even the usually stoic Charles shed glittering tears, wiping them away with rough smudges of his hands as quickly as they came. John, too, was affected, his stiff left shoulder twinging when he pulled Arthur close to comfort him.

“Anything you need, Arthur,” he offered in his hoarse voice, which wavered as he spoke.

“The boy,” Arthur whispered. “I don’t know if I’ve got it in me to get him grown without her, John.”

“You don’t even have to ask, Arthur,” Abigail assured him. “And if you need some time, you bring him by, you hear me, Arthur?” He just nodded, dissolving again into tears of grief.

“I’ll keep him with me until I can’t.” He sighed deeply. “That cabin is awful without her, but we have to stay there. It’s home. And he needs to learn how to accept that she ain’t comin’ back,” he managed to get out, realizing he was talking about himself at that last, and not Leo.

Arthur nudged Goldie back toward home after the service, Leo sitting in front of him on the saddle. The boy asked no questions, he just clung to the saddlehorn and leaned back against his father’s belly, trembling slightly. When they finally got home, the two were quiet. Leo had seen the results of Arthur and Charles’ hunting trips, so he had some small understanding of death, but this…this was such a monumental loss. Arthur remembered losing his own mother, the grief, the fear.

“Come here, boah,” Arthur ordered after he had made him some dinner, seeing that Leo looked shell-shocked. He wrapped his son in an embrace, his arms pulling the child close to his chest. A profound streak of guilt flooded Arthur. Sparrow had never wanted this, to leave a child behind, parentless, but they had done the best they could. They had given him love, and the community had helped in the raising of him. He was quite a thing, Arthur assured himself as he stroked his soft black hair and let him cry softly into his chest. Arthur knew he had to take care of himself now, had to try to live as long as he possibly could so that Leo would grow strong and prepared to be a man in this harsh world.

Sparrow wouldn’t forgive him otherwise.

\--------

It took time for Leo to fully talk out his grief and confusion at the loss of his mother. A few months after her death, Arthur was fishing with him and he suddenly dissolved into tears as he pulled a brightly colored fish to shore.

“What’s the matter, boah?” Arthur asked him, concerned.

“I wish Ma could have seen my fish,” the boy wailed and Arthur’s heart had nearly broken in two. He took a shaky breath and spoke.

“You see them little birds right there?” he asked, pointing over at the ever-present flock of sparrows. “Them little ones with the white throat and that yellow streak on their face?”

“Yeah,” Leo said, sniffling.

“Do you remember what your momma called those?”

“White-throated sparrows,” Leo recounted without hesitation. Sparrow had taught him to recognize wildlife, taught him to cherish and appreciate it.

“Them little birds carry your momma around inside them. See how pretty they are? Hear how sweet their song is?” Arthur asked him in a gentle tone, putting a broad hand on Leo’s small shoulders. Leo nodded, brightening slightly. “She loved those birds, Leo. She told me once that they thrive anywhere. Even where things has been destroyed. Even when all hope is lost, them little fellas will be there, singin’ their song from dawn to dusk. ‘Adversity don’t destroy ‘em, they jest adjust,’” Arthur quoted in his wise drawl, putting his hand on his son’s back. “Sounds kinda like your ma, don’t it?” Leo nodded in agreement. “So you see one of them birds, and you’ll know your momma’s right there with you, watchin’ over you.”

From that point on, the boy greeted the birds as though they were family.

“Hey momma,” he would call whenever the small birds sang their sweet song as he worked or played.

“I caught a frog today, momma,” Leo confided one day as he threw chicken scratch to the little flock that lived near the house.

“Abby threw a rock at me today, momma,” he told the flock of birds later, his brow furrowed. “But then she gave me a slice of her apple. I don’t understand girls,” he informed the little nervous birds where they fluttered in the branches of a spruce tree.

In bits and spurts, Leo shared his troubles with the birds, speaking to them as messengers to his mother. At first Arthur had worried, but the boy was well-adjusted and kind. He just missed his mother.

Arthur began to participate in this little ritual, begrudgingly at first, then more willingly. He took to talking to the birds instead of writing in his journal. He’d be out weeding the garden or fixing a broken wheel on the barrow and the birds would sing and flutter around the wooden and wire feeder he had taught Leo to make. He would offer a handful of seed in his palm and sometimes one of the birds would be brave enough to land on his finger and take some.

“Hey darlin’,” Arthur would murmur softly, his chest aching with longing for his wife. The bird would take a bite of seed, cocking its head at him before fluttering away in a whirlwind of soft feathers.

“Mornin’ Ma,” Leo greeted the little birds as he followed his father out of the cabin on his eighth birthday, the gun Arthur had bought him held tightly in his hand. “Pa’s taking me out to show me how to hunt today. It’s my birthday!”

But not all of the news Leo shared was good news. Often he told the birds the things that troubled or frightened him.

“Pa had a real bad coughing fit today, ma,” Leo said, his voice cracking with the effects of puberty. He was nearly eleven now, taller and thicker, muscular from horseback riding and working cattle with the Marstons and Arthur.

The birds were a comfort when times were hard, something to talk to when Leo missed the warm presence of his mother.

“Pa went down to the doctor last night,” a fifteen year old Leo informed the flock of sparrows. “It don’t look good. Doctor says the consumption’s comin’ back. I think he’s missin’ you too much. If you sing to him, Ma, you tell him,” the boy’s voice broke, “you tell him he can go. Mr. Marston’s offered me a job on the ranch. Told me we can work the land here together. And Abby…I think she’s sweet on me.”

\----------

Leo pushed the door of the cabin open, a bundle of oats from the general store slung over his shoulder. He left the door propped open, knowing he had more to unload.

“I’m back from the general store, Pa. Pearson says ‘hello.’” There was silence in the cabin. Upon the cookstove, a coffee percolator steamed and hissed, the coffee inside burning. Frowning, Leo dropped the bag of grain. It broke open, spilling its contents on the floor. Accustomed to being fed, an opportunistic sparrow from outside flew in and grabbed a mouthful of oats. “Get outta here,” Leo griped, shooing it with a wave of his hand. It fluttered instead away from the open door with a little chirp and flew toward Arthur’s bedroom, darting through the slightly open door with a reckless motion, the sound of its wings sliding against wood audible across the room. It seemed single-minded in its intent, insistent upon flying deeper into the house instead of back out.

Crossing the cabin, Leo knocked on the door frame.

“Pa?” he called. There was no answer. Pushing the door fully open, he let it creak on its hinges, hoping to awaken his father if he had laid down for a nap, something he did frequently these days amidst coughing spells. The sparrow perched on one of the bedposts, blinking at Leo as he walked in. Arthur was breathing shallowly. “Pa,” Leo cried, coming close.

“Hey, boah,” Arthur ground out, his chest expanding and he gave another rough cough. “Think I’m about worn out.” Leo glanced up at the bird, which sat calmly, seemingly unperturbed about its situation. The window was open anyhow, Leo noticed. “You alright, boah?” Arthur grumbled in a voice thick with phlegm, and Leo knew what he was actually asking. Permission. Permission to stop fighting.

“I’m fine, Pa. Plannin’ on going back over to the Marston’s tomorrow to shift the herd.”

“That skunk John still paying you fair?” Arthur asked, wheezing.

“You know he does, Pa.”

“You tell him to stay away from wolves and Pinkertons,” the older man forced out with a smirk. He reached for his hat where it lay on his thigh. “Reckon it’s about time I give you this,” he told him, lifting the hat weakly. His arm shook as he tried to lift it to place the hat atop Leo’s head. The boy ducked his head to accept it, eyes glittering wetly. Relaxing back down into the mattress with a look of exhaustion, Arthur glanced up at the bird. “Hey darlin’,” he said softly. “You here to take me?” It gave a small chirp, fluttering its feathers. Leo blinked away tears, grinding his palm into his eyes to force them away.

“It’s alright, Pa,” Leo told him in a soft voice, taking one of his father’s calloused hands in his own.

“I’m tired, boah. More tired than I ever been.”

“Go on then,” Leo murmured. “Rest.”

\----------------

They were an odd pair, but Leo was used to seeing them on occasion. Given what he had planned, he thought that it was perhaps no coincidence that they visited today. The big buck wandered down out of the brush, nervously munching on corn from the bird feeder. There were scars along his face and down his sides, evidence of hard-won battles. Leo knew this stag, had seen him dozens of times through his scope but had never shot him. This buck was king of this forest, a benevolent leader of a small herd of does and a few young stags, but he had formed an odd friendship when he began to come near the house for food – Upon his antlers would land one of those small brown, white and yellow birds. Leo shook his head with amusement when it did so today, the stag snorting when the bird missed his antlers and landed atop his head instead. The stag shook and the bird fluttered away, landing again a moment later, plucking a few loose hairs for a nest.

“I’m fine, you two,” Leo assured them in a quiet voice as he sipped his morning coffee and watched through the open window of the cabin. “You keep fattening yourself up on corn, somebody’s liable to shoot you, old man,” Leo told the buck. It stamped its foot and snorted, darting off into the undergrowth, the bird fluttering away up into the trees with the rest of its flock.

Today, Leo planned to ask Abby Marston to marry him. He combed his sleek black hair, buttoned up his nicest shirt – a soft blue one, and sat his father’s old hat atop his head before he climbed up onto his horse. He rode up to the Marston’s ranch, more nervous than he had ever been in his life. He had his mother’s ring in his vest pocket. He knocked at the door and John answered.

“Howdy, Mr. Marston.” John gave a small, friendly laugh.

“Leo, if I told you once, I told you a hundred times – call me ‘John.’ We ain’t workin’ today, so what brings you by?”

“Er, Mr. Marston, I…” Leo fumbled the words, feeling himself go red beneath his spattering of brown freckles.

“Well, come on in, kid,” John prodded him, and Leo obliged, pulling his hat from his head out of respect. “What’s on your mind?”

Leo opened his mouth, and what he had prepared to come out of it was _“I’d like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”_ What came out instead was this:

“Tell me more about my father.”

“Which one?” John asked guardedly, seeming as surprised by the question as Leo was. Leo shrugged. Arthur and Sparrow had told him a bit about Dutch, though they hadn’t gone into much detail about any of their lives before they had helped found Dutch’s Hope.

“Both of ‘em, I guess,” he answered finally.

“Alright,” John said in a soft voice. “You got a while?”

“I reckon,” Leo nodded.

“Alright, then.” John puttered around the house, starting a pot of coffee and searching the larder for a bit of cheese and some dried meat with crackers. They would likely be a while. He reached his left arm up and gave a grunt of pain. It had never been the same since Dutch had shot him. Leo pulled down the box of crackers he’d been reaching for, handing it to him without comment. He had worked for John for nearly three years now, and he had known the man all his life. He studied the grizzled features of John Marston, seeing how his brows pinched together slightly, and how the scar across his upper lip made him always seem to have a slightly sarcastic pull to his face. The older man arranged the food on a plate and took the boiled coffee from the burner once it was ready. He sat them all at the kitchen table.

“You’re, what, nineteen now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you want to know about our past now that you’re a man, huh? All the outlaw business.” John’s voice sounded oddly speculative.

“Yes, sir. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Hmm. You sound like Jack. He’s wantin’ to write a book about it, you know?”

“Well, I ain’t a writer, I’m just a rancher and a farrier. But I’d like to know where I came from, I guess.”

“I reckon that’s to be expected. Alright, well, sit down, have some food. It ain’t nothin’ like Pearson’s cookin’ at the restaurant, but it’ll stick to your ribs while I talk,” John went on, pouring them each a tin cup full of steaming black coffee. “Abby and her mother are in town and Jack’s out in the back forty tendin’ the cattle. You and I can talk, and you can stay for dinner. But I get the feelin’ this story ain’t all you came for son,” John prodded, seeing Leo nervously fidgeting with something in his vest pocket.

“Well, sir, I…”

“The story first, son. Then we’ll talk about how I’d love to have you as my son-in-law,” John murmured with a small smile. Leo felt all the blood rush from his face and back again and he grinned widely.

“Th-thank you, sir, thank you,” he spluttered, his green eyes wide and bright, his cheeks beet red with sudden excitement.

“You gonna let me tell this tale, or are you gonna keep interruptin’ me?” John teased. Leo clapped his mouth shut and sat back, still fiddling with the ring in his pocket, but feeling as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “Well…” John began, “by eighteen ninety-nine, the age of outlaws and gunslingers was kinda at an end. America was becoming a land of laws…even the west had mostly been tamed, really. A few gangs still roamed but they were being hunted down and destroyed…ours among ‘em…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I lied. EPILOGUE with Arthur and Sparrow coming this week.


	37. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, an atheist, can write a little bit of heaven.  
As a treat.  
\---------------------------------

Arthur thought a lot about the last time he and Sparrow made love. He had outlived her by a decade, but still her memory did not fade from his mind. The images of her, the feeling of her soft skin beneath his calloused fingers, the fluttering of his hair as her breath brushed against his ear. In the loneliest of nights, he sought comfort in that memory, spending himself into his palm with a small cry, often accompanied by a misty-eyed feeling of deep longing for her.

For ten years, Arthur drug himself out of bed in the morning, made himself and his son breakfast, worked the ranch, made and drank the tonics and teas that fended off his illness. For ten years he made sure he got plenty of sleep, and he avoided people while they were sick so that he would not compound his illness. For ten years, he took the doctor's advice when he was instructed to rest, and he made sure to eat healthfully, forcing vegetables and fruit down his gullet when he really would rather have eaten candy or bacon, or hell, candied bacon. And for ten years, every day after three square meals and a full afternoon of work, Arthur would lie back down, thinking of Sparrow again, thinking of that last time.

For ten years, every single evening, Arthur thought about what he would have done differently if he had known it was the last time he would ever make love to his wife.

He thought perhaps he would have gone slower. He thought that he would have pushed away the urgency, the knowledge that their boy could wake at any moment and interrupt. Hell, he thought he would have sent little Leo to the Marstons' for the day and spent it, all twenty-four hours, making love to Sparrow, not letting her leave the bed until her legs were trembling like custard, until she was flushed and sore and tired and filled with his love. He would have traced his fingers over every curve of her sleek form. He would have memorized every mark upon her; every scar, every mole, every freckle, he would have cataloged it. If he had known, as he could not know, that it would be the last time he would make love to her, that it would be the last day he would lie beside her, he would have tucked that little tuft of stubborn hair behind her ear and kissed the tip of her nose. He would have caressed her lower lip with this thumb, as he tended to do, but this time he would have cupped his hand around her jaw and brought their lips together with the desperation of a dying man who has found water in the desert.

Arthur knew, whenever he slid a hand over himself beneath his blankets, that he would have spent the rest of his days making love to Sparrow, finding all her little pleasurable places, trying new and exotic things as she was always encouraging him to do. He would have clung to her with a kind of madness, his forehead pressed to hers, his mouth agape for air, pushing himself to make love to her for the rest of eternity, because if this was to be _the last time_, he thought that he must make it last forever, for surely that is what any heaven in any holy book would prescribe for two such bonded souls.

Whenever Arthur laid imagining this activity with both the pain of grief and the pleasure of memory as his companions, his breaths came rough. His hand would flow over his arousal with careful motions, imagining his own palm and fingers were her hands, her lips, her warmth, and for just a few moments, in his mind, she was there again, moving against him until at last he could hold himself back no longer and he would climax, the vision of her gone, leaving him lying in his own shame and loneliness.

But after ten long years, there was shame and loneliness no longer.

Arthur stood in an open field beneath a sky whose blue he did not have adequate words to describe. All around him grass waved, flowing on a wind he could feel wafting delicately against his skin. Looking down he realized he was young again, scars and callouses removed as though they had been rubbed out with an eraser by an artist. His eyes scanned the horizon, seeing oaks and pines and, more distantly, a lake. Bluebonnets grew throughout the grass, as did Scarlet Paintbrushes and Black-eyed Susans, their bright colors almost painful to look at directly. Birds sang merrily all around him. There was an Eastern Meadowlark perched on a particularly tall stem of grass, its mouth open wide to release its song into the world, a cheery, metallic melody that was soothing in its repetition. Sparrows, larks, warblers, they all fluttered around, making a cacophony of soft songs as they flowed together through the sky. Arthur smiled. Less than half a mile away there was a small cabin and he made his way toward it. As though sheer force of will had brought him there, he stood before it instantly, having only taken one step. He felt no nervousness or fear, only a vague sense of anticipation when he knocked at the door. It opened with a creak.

"Took you long enough," Sparrow said softly.

"Darlin'," he whispered in a rough voice, pulling her close. He knew, though he did not know how, that no heartbeats were needed in this place, but he found with something resembling relief that Sparrow's heart beat steadily in her breast. "I was hopin' you would be here," he admitted, a slow realization about where he was coursing through him as he realized he could take a full, painless breath for the first time in years.

"It's not just me," Sparrow assured him, stepping back so she could meet his eye. "There's a town and several houses, all you have to do is think about going there." She smiled softly. "I like Hosea a lot, Arthur." His eyebrows rose and he broke into a wide grin.

"Yeah? Did you meet Lenny?"

"Sure did. Isaac too. He's a fine young man here, Arthur. And Eliza and I are fast friends." Arthur swallowed, an emotion he could not name overwhelming him and he blinked away sudden tears which were gone with no more than a thought.

"They're all here, then?"

"They come and go to their own places. This one's mine," she told him, gesturing to the field and the flowers and the birds.

"Then I can visit them anytime?" he asked her, calculating.

"Always."

Arthur thought of the ten years he had longed for Sparrow, but now, with infinity before him, he was content merely to be near her. Right now, he wanted to see his son Isaac. He wanted to see his mother, and Hosea. He wanted to drink with Lenny again, he thought, his chest warming at the thought of his friend.

But then he wanted to make love to Sparrow as though it was the last time. He wanted to show her all those things he had longed to do and more. He smiled broadly, putting his hands on his belt and taking a deep, peaceful breath in through his nose, the scent of wildflowers heavy on the air. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the joy of being reunited to suffuse him, and then he flicked his eyelids open and met Sparrow’s gaze with a twinkle in his too-blue eyes.

"In that case, let's go visiting. But after that...well, I've had a few things on my mind I've been wanting to show you."

The two visited family and friends, joyous in their reunions, flitting between heavens with mere thought. Arthur drank with Lenny, played dominos with Hosea and Bessie. He greeted Eliza and hugged her tightly. Isaac he talked with for long hours, becoming acquainted with a son he had longed to know. When, at last, Sparrow and Arthur decided for solitude, they found themselves back at the little cabin. They moved against one another until time had no meaning. They only separated to talk, or to explore their little heaven, which changed with Arthur’s influence, adding wild horses and herds of grazing bison in the distance. Mountains grew out of nothing and gentle rainstorms filled their place with the sound of thunder and raindrops dancing on sandy ground.

They sat together on the porch of the small cabin, drinking coffee the likes of which they had never had on earth. Arthur laced his arm around Sparrow’s waist and she rested her head on his shoulder as the sun began to set, stars beginning to wink and twinkle into place, the aurora flitting between them like fine ribbons.

Distantly, a faint cry was carried on the wind, a song that somehow encompassed both melancholy and joy, longing and revelation, hope and peace. It was, Arthur thought, the most beautiful song he had ever heard. “What was that?” he asked and Sparrow smiled.

“I don’t know yet. I was thinking to go birding tomorrow, and find out. Whatever it is, it has a song for dawn, and a song for dusk.”

“As most things do,” Arthur murmured, taking her hand.

**THE END**


End file.
